Mortal Heart Volume II: Ethereal
by Balael-666
Summary: The scent of war hovers heavy and thick throughout the three realms. Heaven and Hell are standing upon the edge of chaos, wings unfurled and teeth bared, ready to unleash upon one another pure horror. Angel and human girl...all they want is to be together
1. Know Me From the Wind

**Chapter 1: Know Me From the Wind**

Recommended Listening: "Burning the Past" by Harry Gregson-Williams (From Kingdom of Heaven) and "The Longest Road" by Morgan Page (Deadmou5 Remix)

* * *

— **A very long time ago —**

It was an invitation from the Esterael that brought the party of angels from God's graces in heaven into their home in the nether. The stars had elected a queen and wished to celebrate with dancing and refreshment, which gave them an excuse to visit with their cousins since it was rare that the two races ever crossed paths. Created after her angels, the stars were to be the lowest class of immortal under God, an entire separate race; the lamplighters of heaven. They were almost more spirit and energy than solid form, yet their palaces were great, beautiful structures made from cloud and light turned to glass. Gracious as they were, the angels accepted with honor and with praise for the new royal.

The modest party was met in the grand entrance by the newly instated royal family, the pale blue walls and arcing, streamer-draped ceilings highlighting and beautifying the sapphire skin-tones of the stars. In their finery, wings proudly displayed as cascades of feathers from their shoulder blades, the three Seraphim and five guardians ascended the steps to the palace with nothing but smiles and warm greetings for their cousins.

He remembered the gentle ripple of Cjarsae's white gown, almost as if with its very own breeze, as she held out her hand for him to take, her smile gentle as he bent to bestow a mannerly kiss to her knuckles. "Welcome, cousins, to our home," she said, and it was with a voice that would have belonged to a jewel, could one have spoken.

Lifting his sleek black head, Lucifel met her smile with one of his own. He fit perfectly inside the stars' cold, delicate world with his crystal blue eyes, dark hair and pale skin almost as though it had been intended that way. His airy garments of silver and sapphire complimented them as those of his brethren did not. "Our congratulations to you, Majesty," he beguiled her, relinquishing her hand to that of her brother, who stood by to escort her into the ballroom.

Yet Cjarsae did not take her brother's arm, choosing instead to cast her deep blue gaze upon the rest of the angelic ambassadors assembled behind their Morningstar. As her eyes shifted over each of them in turn, her expression smoothly adjusted to form a greeting for each in turn; silvery Gabriel, blush-red Barbael, charcoal Cassiel, pink Sariel, tawny golden Michael, emerald Ezekiel, and deep plum Azrael. As she came to the last, the least-aged of the procession for all he was the fourth oldest by birth, Cjarsae's smile paused, stilled in place, as though she had seen something in the young angel's face that had disturbed her.

In another moment, the spell had passed and she held out her arms to the young angel with the soft white falcon wings. Azrael's whole aura brightened with pleasure as he gracefully ran to her, the slender adolescent clinging to the star-queen's waist with the fondness for a beloved friend. Laughing, she hugged him, beckoning for the angels to come and dance and be merry. Yet the next time her eyes fell upon Lucifel the Morningstar, there was a troubled light to their brilliance.

The muscles in his neck bunched, ruffling the sleek black eagle feathers at his nape and trailing with the hair that was woven with silk over one shoulder. Certain she had been privy to a vision of the encounter he'd had just hours before with the little adolescent, he gritted his teeth against the impulse to jolt the new queen away from his brother before she could pull anything out of her trance. There was nothing she could possibly see in innocent, naive little Azrael's head that would jeopardize him. Soothing the tension that sang light and trilling in his veins, he forcefully calmed and turned the smile that had remained unwavering upon his lips to Amiriel, holding out his arm for her to take as Gabriel did for Barbael.

There was nothing about the Morningstar that was remotely close to unusual. Tall and elegant, he was his normal beautiful self as God had created him, handsome and powerful, dark hair and wings a gleam of obsidian feathers. But something about him had changed, and it was not for the better. What he was plotting she could not have known, would not discover until it was too late to reverse, and he had masked it well, yet Cjarsae had clear eyes, clearer than most, and she could see that the angel's soul was turning from its natural clear blue to a bruised, blackened shade.

Sariel's grip briefly tightened upon his arm before loosening and slipping away, her skirts of pale rose satin whispering like a dream as she accepted the hand of a star whose name he could not catch due to a distinct lack of attention. His acquiescing nod was aloof, yet neither star nor angel noticed. The Morningstar was not above his periods of distraction.

In truth, Lucifel had eyes for no one, attention for nothing in particular aside from what was expected of him socially. Mostly he kept to his corner, settled in one of the numerous, spindly backless chairs wrought from sky-silver, occasionally sipping from a chalice of the mild, sweet liquor the star-kin favored, deep in thought. He danced with the crown princess, sister to the queen, then with Barbael who pressured with much insistence and laughter when he proved hesitant. Yet when he turned his gaze to the throne at the head of the room, past the whirl of the dance floor, between the drapes of gauze and ribbon fastened to the vaulting ceiling, and met the watchful eyes of the new queen. Her eyes held a question as she stroked Azrael's pale golden head with a graceful hand.

_Why? _

The night flew by, time a wisp of awareness told only by the lengthy shadows cast by the stars' luminous glow. Dance after dance came and went, yet nothing truly spectacular came to pass. It seemed to merely have been a formal celebration shared between two peoples who knew only peace and harmony. It would be, however, the last of such occasions.

The first the Darkness would know of war came several days later. Rebellious angels were stripped of their wings and thrown from grace, cursed and forsaken by their heartbroken mother. Humanity, young as it was, was exiled from Eden to a world forged out of spite and treachery. Cjarsea, along with many of her people, were shaken from their dwellings in the nether sky, doomed to death. And when the dust finally cleared and the separation of heaven and hell was finalized, the scars left by the chaos of disarray ran so deep that they would remain unhealed forever more.

*

_To all of my morals, let me be the traitor._

_You; whom I cannot betray..._

_Because it is far better to be feared than loved._

*

— **Present time —**

On the precipice of mortalized reality lies the place between realms.

Humans have been known to harbor dreams and speculations of other worlds much like their own. So like, in fact, that the resemblances would be mirrored exactly but for slight differences regarding altered events and modified choices which would result in change. These parallel universes, while nonexistent in whole, keep a tiny thread of truth.

There is a world that layers the one mortals inhabit; lying atop it like a close-knit blanket, spread from tree to mountain to skyscraper. Like a thick fog it clings to the earth, serving as one part illusion and two parts link between the mortal world and the immortal netherworld. For every place on the human earth there is a twin, a parallel. And there parts to these parallels that are thinner than others, where the boundaries between mortal and magic are stretched, almost indiscernible.

It was upon one of these that the angel stood, poised atop the face of a virtual cliff, face to the wind. A pair of black-lined violet eyes pierced the misty shadow of a Carpathian winter night, fair, pale features streaked with strands of white-blond that caught and held the light of an eerie moon. Utter stillness swathed his body, with nothing but the swirl of hair and the gentle shift of the gleaming white feathers that streamed down his back like a cloak to betray that this was more than a statue adorning the rock.

Something else moved in the darkness; something he could not yet see with his physical eyes. But it was there, a subtle alteration in the landscape, a fragment of presence that didn't belong there. Riveted, he gazed, a film of power stretching across the vastness of the grassy valley far below, intent upon locating the prey he sought.

He was, after all, a falcon.

A wolf howled in the distance, beyond the reach of mortal and immortal sight alike. Music in the night. A lonely song it was, a pack-sister separated from her family, lost and frightened. Tilting his head back, he howled in reply, the cooing, soaring note spiraling into the air, filling the sky with the husky sound of an alto. It might have seemed a paradox, a wolf's voice in the figure of a bird. But it was right, natural, simply was, and so went without strangeness. The sister wolf answered with pleasure, happy that she was not alone as she had thought. She reported that, hope renewed, she would venture on in search of her pack and so, her mate and pups.

The angel's smile was bittersweet with fondness and longing. Deep inside, in a place where his secret wishes were kept, he wanted to seek his own pack. But that wasn't quite right, was it? He had two packs...his family by blood was one, blood and birth and status. The other was much smaller, yet he missed its loss more fiercely than anything else he had ever known. He would have given much to hold his own mate in his arms right then.

But she was far away, in another reality all together. Out of his reach.

Movement snapped in the distance, causing a rustle of silvery feathers from the head that whipped toward its source. The knot of pale hair bound at his nape shimmered, several more stubborn strands upset from their binding to lay like gold against his dark clothing, pure amethyst jewels honing in on the disturbance inside the territory he guarded.

Seven portals had appeared, at first just a sheen like glass upon the misty matte backdrop before becoming swirling black holes of empty space, inside each, an unwelcome visitor.

Ancient instinct brought the warning hiss to his throat, despite an equal instinctual knowledge that the intruders could not hear it. Ducking his head, he threw his weight into flight, wings arcing to dive from cliff to valley floor where the demon-things were materializing, sent straight from the depths of hell, no doubt. The air turned to an icy wind that cocooned his body, met with the shape of his wings and propelled him downward, streaking with a silent shriek of challenge to his foes. He relished the feel of it, cold and fierce and pure along his feathers and skin, singeing like liquid fire where the two met, spreading along nape, shoulders, and arms.

The demons were no more than simple scouts, sent ahead to see whether or not the old site of battle was inhabited or not. Typical drones reeking of Tartarus soot and filth, dripping with black oil. Though their basic shapes were humanoid, there was nothing even remotely close to human about them, a fact proven by the empty voids of the eyes embedded in their bony skulls which were designed merely as tools to observe and record. They were programmed that way. Nasty little spies.

He landed by slamming into the first to take a step outside the boundaries of its swiftly vanishing portal, its snuffling nose catching wind of his scent an instant before he tore it apart with the blunt force of his legs crushing its chest flat. It squealed in pain and startled horror, but he silenced it with a swift slice to the throat with the side of one powerful hand rimed with purple fire. The grass was splattered with a spray of black. Whirling gracefully, he caught the clawing hands of the second demon mid-reach for his torso as it meant to grip and hold him for the others to gut and maim. Wings shifted to align his balance perfectly to the situation, he stunned the creature with a backhanded slap of magic, then pivoted to bury his shin in its side. Winded, it stumbled, falling to its knees and spewing oil from a badly-aligned jaw. As a spark of violet collided with its skull, the head imploded and it dropped, a useless shell.

Despite the small victory, there were still five more of the things, and while not exactly dangerous, he was not at all comfortable having grasping, dirty, pulling hands at his wings. Gathering the flame of his magic about his closed fist, he turned and loosed the bolt at the demon that was charging Barbael as she cut down another with her sabre of bronze and silver filigree. Convulsing with a gurgle of piteous agony, the creature's poor excuse for a heart gave one last struggling beat before shuddering to liquid and pooling from its broken chest cavity as it sank into oblivion.

She straightened from her fighting guard, adjusting her high leather collar. "_Kai'ruhnne,_" she thanked him breathlessly, the thrill of the dive from where she had shadowed him among the cliffs driving her speech shallow and high, though she hadn't really needed his help.

She was part of his guard, a rudimentary (if somewhat unnecessary) precaution set in place for all of heaven's generals, and she was one of his favorites. Barbael was the epitome of tact when it came to understanding when her services were required and when she was to step back and let her general handle matters himself. She was neither overprotective nor careless. The best thing about her, though, was that she didn't treat him like an overlord, as some lower-ranked angels tended to do.

He nodded once, wordless, and turned to the second angel who had dove to the aid of her commander. Eyes deadly behind the fringe of his hair, he assessed the three fallen bodies that lay at the female's feet and let the magic that had gathered in the cup of his palm sink back into his skin, flowing back into Chakra veins that were steadily cooling from the heat of battle.

Moro had made quick work of her foes. A feat that was not surprising coming from the matron of the hunt, famed for her wolfish speed and vicious attacks. Kneeling among their resting places, careful to avoid smearing her gathered emerald skirt with their black blood, she painstakingly removed the fine, senbon-like needles she used for weapons from their corpses before they could be devoured by the rapidly-degenerating flesh. After wiping them clean and sliding them back into the holster at her bare thigh, she lifted her citrine eyes to his face and murmured, "you really shouldn't run off like that, My Lord. What if they had been Soldiers?"

"They were drones," was his only reply, stretching his wings and eyeing the pools of black that had contaminated his grass.

"But what if they had been?"

She was clearly displeased with him for running headfirst into a situation that, had the circumstances been slightly different, could have been seriously dangerous. That was well enough for itself, but he was no fledgling fresh out of the nest. If the demons had been dangerous, he would not have sought to face them alone.

Azrael turned a pair of fierce purple eyes to the green-eyed angel, treating her to a stare that could have frozen a mortal's blood on sight. "Do not insult me," he murmured, "I would not risk so much this early in the game."

Having understood the subtle displeasure on her general's breath telling her that he didn't appreciate being challenged, Moro inclined her head to convey apology, lowering her eyes to his authority. Her silvery face was veiled by the fall of her snow-white hair. Getting to her bare feet, grey wings edged with fur trailing to brush the ground, she clasped one hand to her chest, crossing the decorative metal corset which cinched her waist. Then, with a graceful, instinctual bend of knees and tensing of tendon, she took to the air, back to her station among the cliff face.

"I think you caught her by surprise." Barbael was a shapely frame garbed in black and scarlet leather, her long legs crossing the grass with steady strides as she approached. In one hand she held a cloth with which she was cleaning her blade. "That's why she's irritable."

His smile was thin. "The full moon hardly helps." He tilted back his head to find the spot of dark cloud that veiled the moon, just slightly paler than the rest of the sky, his breath a mist of white against the backdrop. "She wants to be dancing. I do not blame her."

Sheathing her sabre at the space between her sandy wings, Barbael propped one hand to her hip, the other busy smoothing the streak of blond that framed the left side of her face. An edgy movement, a habit driven by nerves. Her russet brown eyes were focused on the quickly decomposing shells at the grass, and though she wrinkled her nose at the stench they gave off, Azrael could see that her mind was not on them. He waited for her to speak, which she did without too much more hesitation. "It's started..." she muttered, and when she lifted her pointed chin to meet his eyes, there was a weary disappointment underneath her young face.

"Yes," the seraph confirmed, empathetic to the waves of emotion rolling from her aura like an ocean.

"I was hoping it would just be a little upset...but I was wrong."

A tiny thread of guilt stabbed at his heart, even despite knowing that he and his actions had only made the descent to war come more quickly than it might have otherwise. He couldn't help feeling partially responsible for subjecting his people to the stresses and pains of the chaos. His hands cupped her cheeks, lifting her eyes to his, gentle and tinged with gray. "It will pass," he promised. "It always does."

Smiling, she nodded and thumped her fist into the left side of her chest, mimicking the parting gesture Moro had made just moments before. "Yes, sir." He took a step back to give her room to maneuver as she prepared for flight, wings arcing sandy-gold in the night air. "Just, next time take a little slower dive so we humble guards can keep up with Your Lordship!" He laughed softly and offered a casual salute as she launched into the air with a sweep of her delicate sandpiper feathers.

As soon as she had vanished from his range of sight, the ghost of a smile slipped from his mouth. There was very little to smile about. He was there, preparing his legion for battle the likes of which they hadn't faced in millennia, and his source of light was far, far away from him. Yet he stood firm, shoulders straight and wings folded proud against his back, training his eyes to the place that would never be a home, but would prove his kingdom for the next untold piece of time.

The front for the Manal force (those with strong sources of magic and under Azrael's command) was essentially a fortress set into the face of the Carpathian mountains. Formidable as it was in times of disuse, the Eyrie was practically untouchable when inhabited and guarded, especially considering how thorough the watch was kept. With its high, stone-block walls, iron rails and protective arches, the place was reliable, easy to defend, and safe. They had been lucky to have moved quickly, since doing so enabled them to choose the battleground according to their preference, selected for its services in the past. That had been the reason for the demons having entered their perimeter so boldly – to see if the old war zones were still in use. The responding message had been loud and clear.

Judging by the scale of unreliability of immortal warfare, in which there were few real solid rules, the decision to revert to a base that was both familiar and well-suited to the needs of the soldiers that would defend it was wise. It was unclear how long they would be stationed there, when or if Michael's troops stationed somewhere east of them would call for aid, or whether they would need to evacuate for any other reason. For the time being there was only silence, but it wouldn't be long now before the onslaught began.

With a quiet breath and an arc of white feathers, he took to the sky, calming his anxieties at least for the moment with the rush of the air against his body. Regardless of the ability to move himself from one place to another within a fraction of an instant, flight was a pastime that he enjoyed for the sake of the freedom it gave him. It wasn't just because of what he was, or even for the pride it gave an angel to bear God's gift of wings, but simply because of the swift, easy grace of the dance, the pure joy it was to not be eternally grounded.

As he touched upon a streak of thermals high above the earth, he let his mind seek the presence that would give him comfort in this difficult time, reaching with a tiny trace of unconscious power to locate the half-human spirit that subtly brightened upon contact. Though she was fast asleep, even in her dreams she sensed him, responded to his touch. He trailed ghostly fingertips along the slope of her cheek, along the crown of her dark head, smoothing the hair that spilled over her pillow and onto the black fur of the creature he had set to guard her. And, upon knowing that she was well and safe, withdrew from her and back to the present of his surroundings just in time to land upon the ledge of the topmost rampart.

"Ezekiel," he addressed his lieutenant, who was bent with his head over a map, refreshing his mind with the layout of the area. The red-brown head lifted, ready to receive his general's orders. "Send for Pandora, we need our medics present as soon as is possible."

"Yes, sir," Ezekiel took a step for the stairwell that led down to the lower levels, hand brushing one towering stone archway with a familiar reminiscence. Once he had been stuck full of enemy arrows in that very place, yet still he had retained the stamina to guard Azrael's back as the seraph performed demanding and dangerous spells to keep a score of Jewish refugees from harm.

Azrael's eyes flushed with the vivid plum shade of energy and pride as he called, "Ezekiel..."

"Sir?"

"You are _Ang'la__,_ soldier. Wear your wings."

The russet hawk's red-tipped wings burst from the younger angel's shoulders and, with a solemn nod and a respectful salute, he descended to locate a messenger.

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**Hello! Welcome to the first installment of Mortal Heart Volume II! This was originally going to be a longer chapter, but as I've been so devastatingly pissed off with my schoolwork preventing me from writing (I'm finished now! Yay!), I was extremely enthusiastic to get this up and going. The first chapter's always the most difficult.**

**I had some trouble deciding on how I wanted to begin. But in the end I decided with a sort of flashback, and then getting started on some action! I have to say I'm fairly pleased with it...though this doesn't mean we'll be excused from epic-long chapters in the future. Also, keep in mind that I have only two or three of this Volume's chapters written, which means most of my delays will probably be longer since I'll be composing instead of editing for post. This makes me sad, however, it should be worth it in the end.**

**Alright, I think that's about all I have to say for now. Please me kind to me and review, as it makes all of this so much easier and worthwhile for me to know I have an audience.**

**Much love! Until next time!**


	2. Anno Domini

**Chapter 2: Anno Domini**

Recommended Listening: "Better" by Regina Spektor, "So are You to Me" by Eastmountainsouth  
and "Breath of Life" by Howard Shore [from Lord of the Rings: the Two Towers]

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The lies came more easily the second time around, a simple truth that made Lilith quite grateful for the rehearsal she'd forced herself through beforehand. Simplicity, however, did nothing to ease either guilt or nerves. Unhappy news was not something Lilith bore well, and having to tell Jessica along with (inadvertently, for they were both shamelessly eavesdropping) Alice and Janelle that she would be unable to come to future classes and therefore unable to perform in the Spring was three times more difficult than any such news she could remember handling before.

Part of this, she knew, was because the news was not only unpleasant for those meant to receive it, but to herself as well. It was as if speaking it aloud would make it true...and she didn't want it to be true. No matter how much better it would be in the long-run to cut her ties of responsibility to the school, it still made her feel cold and sad inside. Not only because this was to be the last class she would be attending for an uncertain amount of time, but because the excuses she plead for both herself and her partner in more than she could truly confess served as a sharp reminder of why she was making them in the first place.

Some of that was good. Some of it...not so much.

Once her piece was said, she allowed herself to avert shamed green eyes from the treated wood floor beneath her feet and to Jessica's shock-stricken face.

"But—_why?"_

With a wince, Lilith took a soft breath and continued on with her practiced lie – not too much, not too little. "I was hoping Adrian had talked to you already...he's been deployed to Iraq as part of some surveillance group. They're flying out tomorrow. And I just..." Her throat closed up, choking the breath and the words with a surge of very real emotion. A dull, longing ache cramped the space behind her ribs, loneliness of a kind that seemed to eat her up from the inside outward. Corrosive as an acid, bile-like sickness welling up at the back of her throat, she swallowed, and continued softly: "I don't know if I'm—"

"I think Lili's trying to say that she's not emotionally stable right now," Janelle interrupted, having quickly approached to wrap an arm around her struggling friend's waist. The look she shot their teacher went partially unnoticed by Lilith's surprise upon being defended, yet said quite clearly that they had all known of the relationship between the brunette and her one-time-forced partner. "Being reliable to an extracurricular activity is the last thing on her mind right now."

A second band of warmth curled across Lilith's back, and she glanced to her other side to see Alice peering at her with a heavy sympathy shimmering in the petite girl's caramel-colored eyes. Alice's fingers curled into her lightweight thermal top, a touch full of knowing that Lilith wasn't certain she understood.

Jessica's expression was downcast, but resigned. "Oh, Lilith—of course, I understand," she said gently, with the overly-saddened heaviness of someone who didn't, not truly. "You do whatever you have to. If you ever need anything..."

"Thanks, Jess," Lilith allowed herself a timid smile, a slow pull of lips that was half afraid it would turn into more of a pained wince should she try too hard. She hated lying to them, all three of them, but what choice was there? She couldn't exactly explain that, by the way, their friend and student couldn't commit because she'd been turned into a half-immortal hybrid who would have to be dragged back to hell (of all places) to restore her human body's energy at irregular intervals.

With a final, sad nod and a pat to her cheek, Jessica turned her back and began packing up her bag, folder of CDs and water bottle tucked away into pockets, dance shoes replaced by their street-friendly counterparts. The class was ten-minutes over and most of the students had left, off to pursue various other nighttime duties before bed, yet neither Janelle nor Alice seemed inclined to leaving her. They walked her to the dressing room in silence, arms still crossed like a lattice-support behind her back, and she had to admit that the contact made the pain of her fears and loss feel much less awful. She stepped into the small former-kitchen and reached for her jeans.

"Lili...?"

Perhaps if it hadn't been said, she might never have lost her grip on whatever it was keeping her emotional range in check. Yet as soon as Alice's meek, inquiring tone alit upon the question of whether or not she was all right, something inside her just cracked. Turning her chin, she laid her forehead against the slope of Alice's slim, cotton-garbed shoulder and closed her eyes, suddenly weary with the ragged upheaval going on within. What was strange, though, most of the weight in her chest couldn't even be associated with the knowledge that she wouldn't be coming back to class after winter break.

Janelle smoothed Lilith's dark brown hair, hand absently tidying flyaway strands that had come loose from the bun at the base of her neck. "Shh, honey, it's ok to miss your man—"

She _did _miss him. Hardly a week had tottered by and already she noted an empty place where his presence in her life had been. As if a place right at the center of her self had left, riding along in his back pocket, given willingly, if wistfully. Yet it was times like this, with something physical and real to remind her, that she could reassure herself that she hadn't simply imagined the entire thing from swapping her species type to the angel himself. It was no figment. It was just...everyone said (more like mindlessly quoted with little to no comprehension for what it actually meant) that absence made hearts fonder, but to her it seemed foolishness. Absence made the heart _hurt_.

And yet, despite the little pang of unhappiness that tugged at her heartstrings upon thinking about him, whatever she felt seemed to be mostly positively-influenced. There were good reasons for what had happened, both his having left and her separating herself from the bind of the dance school. Serious reasons, perhaps, but good ones, too. After all, wasn't it more important to make the whole affair as easy for everyone involved as possible? And in doing so, make those who were unaware stay that way?

Undoubtedly.

Besides, he (or rather the lack of him) wasn't the complete problem. It was just that she needed a moment to be sad for all the changes, the tiny bullet to the stomach that was the inevitable loss of dance to keep her feet sane, metaphorically speaking. Sure, she missed Azrael something awful, but at least she knew she's see him again. God only knew when she'd come back here again.

Realizing she had been spacing out, she muttered, "I'm sorry," with a sheepish shrug and stepped away from both girls to gather her things.

"It's ok," the black-haired beauty gave her a soft smile, picking up her bag and shrugging into her coat as Lilith pulled her jeans on over her tights. Then: "come on, let's grab dinner and we can talk. I feel like we haven't had a good talk in ages." Upon catching sight of the odd look that crossed Lilith's face, Alice quickly amended, "or Jelly and I can do the talking..."

The thoughtfully calculating expression Lilith wore slipped into one of mild surprise. "What?" She's been trying to remember the last time she had gone out with the girls, but apparently (oversensitive to her moods as they must have been) Alice had interpreted her lack of reply as a negative reaction to the invite. "No, no," came her quick amendment, pulling the pins from her bound-up hair and letting it hang as a wavy ponytail more acceptable for spending time in public than a stiff Ballet bun. "I'd like to sit and talk. I could use a few hours of distraction."

Alice's answering nod was obvious with relief, as was Janelle's quick leap to a new topic. "We should call Sarah, see if she's up to coming!" The blond was hopping on one foot, squirming out of her tights and into a loose, three-tiered skirt of soft blue cotton that seemed inappropriate for the December cold that was raging outside, even despite the heavy legwarmers and boots she had waiting to be put on.

"She might have a date with Mark tonight," cautioned Alice in between pulling on first t-shirt, then thermal hooded jacket. "I think I remember her mentioning—"

"Was that tonight? Well crap."

Lilith paused mid-step into her converse sneakers, curiosity piqued by the mention of Sarah's newest boy-toy. "They're still together?" she inquired, lacing up her shoe without looking at the activity of her hands.

Janelle's loose blond curls bobbed as she nodded assent, pulling at the straps that secured her three-inch heeled boots to her calves. "Yup. Actually, it's funny you say that, Sarah seems pretty serious about this one. She's a lot less hyped-up about him, which is odd, but sometimes that's the way a working relationship goes." Straightening with a stretch of her sweater-shielded shoulders, she thought for a moment, and piped, "I'm gonna call and ask her to come."

Alice giggled as Janelle danced off into the hallway with her cell phone to make the call, shouldering her bag and waiting for Lilith to finish buttoning up her coat. Once the brunette was reasonably ready, she took Alice's waiting arm and walked with her out to the doorstep until Janelle got Sarah's answer.

Just a few days ago fall had lingered, a mild warmth remnant on the air, reminiscent of apples and pumpkin pie. Yet now the outside breezes held a chill that could no longer be called anything other than frigid, smelling of wet and ice crystals that stung the nose to redness. It couldn't even rain, which, for New York, signified that it was going to be a bad winter. Even when the wind subsided to an easy breath, bones creaked and flesh protested, flushing itself with blood in hopes of countering the sheer, bitter cold of it.

The two girls huddled close together, hastily grappling with mittens and scarves, and Alice asked her, quite softly, "I don't want to...I mean, I hope this isn't a bad time, but I wanted to ask...maybe I should wait—" she let the words fade into the breeze, smoothing worriedly at her short black hair with gloved fingers, which only made the frizzing worse.

"Ask me what?" Lilith coaxed, watching as Alice lifted amber-brown eyes to look at her.

"If you'll be a bridesmaid for me," she said, and it came out in something of a mumbled rush, followed quickly by: "Sarah _did_ tell you Elijah and I got engaged...?"

Something inside Lilith softened as she processed, recalling that Sarah had indeed mentioned Elijah's proposal to their friend last week. It was a little reminder that even under the niggling threat of danger elsewhere in the universe, there was still something as wonderful as love to counter it, and heartened her, grounding the part of her that still felt distracted by other faraway things.

As she turned the idea over in her head (her Alice, getting married!) she realized that just a month ago she would have been somewhere close to horrified upon even imagining being involved in a wedding. Perhaps the old Lilith would have even made some polite excuse, claiming to be otherwise occupied, too busy, or having relatives from out of town to visit before even knowing the important dates involved. She was somewhat ashamed to acknowledge the colossal amount of truth to that rather sad fact. But that was _then_.

Squeezing Alice around the waist, she hugged her friend, only a few inches shorter than herself, and gave her a (at least to Alice's perception) surprisingly radiant smile. "Of course I'll be a bridesmaid! You couldn't pay me enough to miss it."

Alice's beaming response was somewhat muffled by the fact that she'd buried her face in Lilith's shoulder for a better hug, but clear enough to voice her gratitude. "Oh! Thank you, thank you!" she squeaked, and though she didn't say it, thought to herself that Lilith, with the lost, lonely speck of light behind her eyes couldn't possibly know how much it meant to Alice.

But, in her own turn, there was much Alice felt didn't she knew about her long-time friend, either. Lilith had always been somewhat on the solitary side, which wasn't necessarily something Alice had ever found cause to blame considering the way Sarah had reported the girl had been brought up. It wasn't something mentioned in their circle, but all three of them knew it. Lately, however, Lilith seemed to have been going through a rapid flurry of changes in the past month or so. She seemed less on-edge, less wary of every shadow at her back, more confidant in herself and her abilities in more ways than one. Alice couldn't say for sure, but she was certain that almost all of it could be attributed to one person, and she felt sorry that she couldn't walk up to the guy and thank him for helping her friend free herself from her own fear.

Watching as Lilith turned her pretty green eyes to watching the cars fly by, a chaotic symphony of squealing tires, slamming doors, and the blare of horns, Alice took note of the way her friend was smiling, lightly, in a way that was absent of any directing thought. Her face seemed to absorb something from even the barest traces of light left in the dusky sky and turn it into a kind of cheer. For a young woman whose first real love had been called away, and had been forced to give up her favorite pastime for the sake of her own nerves, she looked quite peaceful. Maybe she knew something Alice didn't. Or maybe she just had faith in her karma. Either way, it was nice to see her looking so positive.

Janelle came skipping down the steps to join them only moments later, her heels tapping harsh and loud against the cement (a noise smothered by the music of the streets) and her sequined purse almost blinding, reflecting the fluorescent lights of early night back into their eyes. "Sarah's free! She said she'll meet us at _Antony's_ in five."

"Come on, then!" Lilith slung her arm through Janelle's and tugged the two girls forward toward the right, and in the direction of the French cafe. "Or we'll be late and won't get a table."

Chatting and giggling, the trio headed off, arms linked and cheeks pink from cold that went unnoticed for the glow of company.

*

Sarah arrived slightly later than promised, armed with a stack of bridal magazines stuffed full of location ideas, invitation patterns, and dresses. She slid into the booth with an exclamation of greeting, dropping her burden down on the corner-booth's table with an ominous slap of laminated pages, almost literally beaming. Typical Sarah, all alight on a Friday night as though someone had fed her sugared fireflies.

"Hey, ladies!" she crooned after ordering an apple martini from the hovering waiter, the fiery strands of her bangs striped with the yellow bobby-pins holding them out of her face, a match to the sunny shade of the two-layer polka dot blouse flashing under her short faux-leather jacket. "And how are we tonight?"

Scooting over in the padded seat so the newcomer could have more room, Lilith and Alice met one another's eyes and succumbed to a light titter of laughter, concealed by palm and drink. Setting her strawberry daiquiri on its paper coaster, Lilith picked up the topmost _Modern Bride_ magazine and scanned the cover before flipping it open to peruse its contents. The majority of the articles featured planning advice and rules of etiquette, or had prettily-photographed samples of place-cards and cakes. She grimaced delicately and set it back down on the pile.

"Does this mean what I think it means?" Alice asked, propping her chin in one hand and sending the spirited redhead across from her a bemused, and somewhat quelling, glance.

Martini delivered, Sarah gleefully took a drink and began doling out magazines by the half-stack to her three girls. Those she set in front of them, Lilith noticed, had the ends of lime-green and angry-pink sticky notes poking out from between the pages, marking items of particular interest, of course. "Heck yeah, it does," was her response, her smile knowing and self-satisfied. "You knew this was coming, as if I'd ever pass up and opportunity to help plan one of my best girls' weddings!"

Janelle snickered into her Mojito, drawing a kind-hearted scowl from Sarah's doe-brown eyes.

"Well, since it won't be you, miss _Married-to-My-Pointe-Shoes!_" the redhead snapped, playful in her mock-rage, "I'll take what I can get."

With an airy, lofty smile, nose in the air, Janelle retorted simply, "when I get to New York Ballet Company and hook up with my lifting partner and run off to Vegas, you'll be sorry."

Sarah looked mortified. "You wouldn't do that to me...!"

"See if I won't," Janelle teased in a sing-song voice.

"She would, too," Alice added dryly, eliciting a quiet cry from a horror-stricken Sarah.

"No she wouldn't, because she loves me and knows how much denying me a chance to plan her wedding would _wound_ me—"

Smiling at the banter, Lilith sipped at her daiquiri and let the warm, happy atmosphere sink into her soul. It was like old days, when life had been simpler and less complicated, when she had been nothing more than a normal girl just like them and the best of memories had come from places like this. Old days, she called them, yet they hadn't been so long ago. When it came to this, to the girls she loved like non-biological sisters, nothing had changed. Nothing at all except one little piece of understanding that before had been missing. They were a light for her, to comfort and help her through the adjustment of being somewhat alone in a way she hadn't really known existed until now. She loved them. They loved her too.

Sarah, the spit-fire slash drama queen, the only girl Lilith knew who could compliment your sense of style and imply that you needed new shoes all in the same sentence. The first real friend she'd ever had. The first person she'd let loose for, trusted, and had learned to truly care about. It was Sarah who had made it possible for her to work, to get her apartment, to survive high school...if not necessarily in that order. Janelle and her romantic nature, the girl who (to Lilith's knowledge) had only dated twice in the past. An honest-to-goodness believer in true love, the blond had the sweetness and grace of a flower and the toughness of a kick-boxer, slightly ornery enough to give Sarah a good contest of wills.

Alice... Lilith glanced over at the pretty little female sitting to her right, laughing at Janelle's threats to elope with her future fiancé. Probably the kindest, sweetest person she had ever known, Alice didn't have a single mean bone in her body, nor did she see anyone without her lenses of sunshine. Undoubtedly this was why Elijah wanted her to be his wife. Lilith wasn't at all surprised by the turn of events, and in truth she couldn't have been happier for her fellow dark-haired dancer; yet as she watched, read the deep-set glow of adoration and soon-to-be-married bliss underneath Alice's rosy cheeks, she felt a little sad.

It wasn't that she felt like Elijah was taking her friend away from her, though perhaps she might have had circumstances been different. It was as if a tiny sliver of envy had burrowed into her heart, nagging, wistful, and surprisingly harsh. She knew that other little girls dreamed about their wedding day – a day of beautiful dresses and fancy food and decorations, a day to celebrate romance between herself and the faceless man across from her – yet Lilith hadn't had the imagination for it. Even now she found herself startled by the scrap of yearning she felt to be in Alice's place, to be anticipating her upcoming marriage. To give her vows to love and cherish her someone forever. But that was silly. She had no reason to want such a thing.

Still, she smiled and let out a slow breath, she couldn't deny her excitement to see Alice and Elijah share their day. Not only was it her duty as a friend to be involved, but somehow it might ease the want for something she knew already she would probably never have, and a desire that already seemed to be fading. What was the importance of marriage to immortals? Forever had a very different meaning in the reality she understood now.

The waiter returned, inquiring whether they were ready to order, which resulted in a scramble to shove magazines aside and grab for menus, and a rather scattered chorus of giggling. She ordered the French Onion Soup, the promise of warmth and melted cheese appealing to her desire for comfort, and another daiquiri (virgin, if it wouldn't be too much trouble). Then, much to Alice's amused chagrin, Sarah returned their attention to the puddles of laminated paper strewn across their table.

"So," she began, reaching for the two magazines resting nearest Alice's right hand. "I thought we should look for dresses first, because that's really the important thing, and because it'll give us a color scheme to work with." She flipped to first one marker, made an impatient noise through her teeth, and flipped to another, upon which she squealed excitedly and laid out the page, nudging it forward so the other three could see. They leaned forward to see the white, taffeta dress with its shape-hugging fit, sweetly modest neckline, strap-sleeves that crossed prettily over the back, and the full, point-gathered skirt.

"Oh, Alice..." Janelle's words came in a breathy rush, "it's you in fabric!"

Alice deigned this worthy of a mildly affronted glance, but her eyes drifted back to the gown, her fingertip skimming the neckline of the model. "My grandma's pearls would look pretty with this."

"I know," Sarah admitted with a quiet smile. "That's part of why I marked it." She looked at Lilith, who was studying the picture with assessment in her green eyes. "What do you think, honey?"

She could feel the three pairs of eyes on her, two sets curious, one set pleading, and knew at that moment Alice wouldn't take a dress that wasn't agreed upon by all three of her friends. Her insides lurched, moved by her friend's want to involve her girls so wholeheartedly in something so obviously important to her. Lifting her eyes to meet Alice's soft, inquiring golden-brown gaze, and murmured, "I think it's perfect. And I think you should have freesia for one of your flowers."

Freesia for innocence. How truly fitting.

Alice's smile was lovely, her embrace the close, warmed hug of devoted intimacy belonging to true friendship. Arms wrapped tightly about Alice's waist, Lilith relaxed against the loving tide of acceptance and affection that flowed from the three girls and let her sorrows, her anxieties, and her burdens melt away. Pushing them back into the recesses of her mind, she turned her attention to the selection of bridesmaid dresses Sarah was busy displaying for them, listening to Janelle's quiet _oohs_ and _ahhs_ over the fishtailed-gown of bright, beautiful starry sapphire blue and the one-shoulder, slit-skirted dress of sleek pewter gray.

This was a night for her, to be herself with her girls, and to add that hydrangeas would look rather lovely with the blue gowns.

*

It wasn't until a quarter past eleven that Lilith managed to meander her way through the door to her apartment after a good four hours of catching up and plotting details for the upcoming wedding. Short notice, Sarah claimed, but nothing she wouldn't be able to work with. They had decided upon the blue dresses, the flowers, and a table-setting design they would put into effect once Janelle called the park system and booked the picnic tables they had in mind for the ceremony and reception day. The whole event would take place in Central Park, since neither Alice's and Elijah's families were very religious, in a little area located on the northern side of the Kennedy-Onassis Reservoir. It would be Lilith's duty to manage the flowers. Everything else was being stitched into order by a blissfully busy Sarah.

Trudging across the threshold, feeling light and contented, Lilith dropped her dance bag and purse on the little thrift-store table and bent to unlace her shoes, a small, preoccupied smile softening the naturally stubborn set of her chin. While still somewhat troubled by her secret, she couldn't argue that the outing with her ladies had given her a much-needed break from some of the seriousness of the outside world. And she couldn't stop the welling of cheerfulness that filled her up.

A muted clicking of claws upon the kitchen linoleum caused her to look up and see Cerberus approaching from the bedroom. Sleek and black, regal, wolfish face forward, ears down as a show of submission and nine furry tails wagging furiously, the dog who came to the height of her ribs when standing padded up to greet her. With a friendly murmur, she crouched on the carpet that stretched from door to living room and received a generous, yet quite polite lick to the cheek for her efforts.

"Hello, boy," she cooed, ruffling the thick, silver-dusted fur at his chest, smoothing his ears and head with gentle hands, happy to have something warm and lovable to come home to. Her fingers brushed the fabric collar fastened around his neck and noticed, with a touch of mild surprise, that part of the thing didn't seem to be there. In fact, a solid chunk of the dog's neck appeared to be missing. Reaching cautiously toward the unknown strangeness, she touched the spot with a fingertip, and jerked quickly backward when she felt nothing but warmth where there should have been fur and muscle. Yet as she watched, the cloth slowly faded back into visibility as though shedding a spell which had made it temporarily transparent and untouchable. When she touched it again, there was warm dog-flesh underneath the collar.

Rocking back on her heels, Lilith considered what that meant and had her conclusion in an instant. Not long ago the entire dog had probably been invisible to any unmagicked eye, following her around all day, unseen and unfelt. She understood then the lengths to which her angel warden had gone to ensure her safety by spelling his aide to have the will to become invisible to watch her. Or perhaps this was an ability Cerberus possessed all on his own.

With a small, concerned noise made in the back of his throat, Cerberus laid back his ears and nudged her face with a wet nose. She giggled, which turned into an all-out laugh when the dog bowled her flat on her back by pushing his head into her chest, and had to shove hard against his strong canine shoulders to get him to let her up again.

Deciding that it was really neither here nor there that her temporary guardian-pet could turn invisible, Lilith put the matter out of mind and scratched Cerberus behind the ears. It was late and she was tired, both mentally and physically. Yet she wasn't quite ready to go to bed, no matter how comfortable and welcoming her mattress seemed when she passed by on the way to her dresser and the promise of pajamas. Soft flannel pants and cotton shirt, complete with sweater, lay loose against her skin and served as a welcome replacement for her clothes. She poked at the underwire of her removed bra, trying to find the place that had pinched enough to cause the ache in her chest, but grew distracted and left it atop the drawer to seek the hot solace of coffee.

Warm mug in hand and a packet of biscotti bought from a Starbucks that morning, which she'd forgotten to eat, Lilith entered her living room with the idea of surfing for a good movie to watch and zone out to. Plopping down on the couch, her feet made contact with something solid and furry, and looked down to see Cerberus stretched out on the carpet, looking somewhat stiff, as though he was used to softer sleeping places. One pale blue opened to survey her, and with a bemused smile, she patted the cushion next to her. With a smooth bunching of muscles, the canine leapt up as invited, curling dutifully beside her leg and tucking a heavy head on her lap, tails lazily wagging.

By some happenstance she found the suspenseful film _The Prestige_ on one of the movie channels, and watched contentedly as the two magicians battled for the rank of the best all the while losing parts of themselves along the way. She fell asleep to the intertwined sounds of the credits rolling and Cerberus' breathing, coffee only half-drunk, biscotti once again forgotten.

An hour later she woke, retreating to the bathroom for the sake of an unhappy bladder, and then to bed, a not so much as bleary-eyed dog trailing behind her to curl up at her feet atop the covers. She sank back into slumber's arms, immersed in a dream that spanned the distance between real and imaginary, as they so often tended to do, regardless of Cerberus' comfortable company.

In dreams, she was alone.

It wasn't an old dream, like some she'd had before, pulled out from the internal library kept inside her subconscious mind to entertain (or interrupt) her rest. The scene stretched in front of her was brand new; vivid and sharp in color and line as many were dull, shadowed and gray. She stood at the edge of a dark, dense forest, a shallow glade canopied by tees that towered upward to spear the sky she couldn't see, but knew was there. Green of all shades from brilliant to treacherously close to black surrounded her at every side but for the dirt-trod path which lay beneath her feet and, as she observed with wide eyes, led out of the shade and into a wide, open forever of grass.

Dotted with wildflowers and sliced in two by a stream, trickling and singing gently beneath the whisper of a cooling breeze, it had the appearance likened to that of any field or meadow that had once been allowed to roam across endless acres on earth. Yet Lilith knew that no matter its looks, she knew that nowhere in her world had known a place like this one. Its color was too rich, too pure, the greens to close to the origins of what had become _green_ as it was known to mankind. It was too achingly beautiful, and not in a sense too poetic to be taken seriously. A part of her, somewhere deep in the pit of her stomach, suffered a heavy, lethargic hurt like a wound that had halfway healed. All the same, she didn't have much attention to offer it. The entirety of her focus was spent on drinking in the lush meadow spread before her.

Enormous as it seemed, she noticed that the edges of everything from the foliage of the plants to either side of the pathway to the banks of the stream seemed faintly blurred, as though she viewed them through a transparent screen of ultrafine cloth. Yet even with that trace of fuzziness to the corners, the place seemed more alive than even a talking, breathing human. This world, wherever, whatever it was, had its own sense of being…an existing knowledge of what it was and where it had come from, where its purpose lay. And, strangely, that wasn't the least bit frightening.

She peered about from side to side, taking in the tiny details of the dense trees that huddled close to her, shading her with a darkness that was somehow different from what appeared to be twilight over the open meadow. Though the atmosphere seemed peaceful, quiet, teaming with the breath of life, but there was an underlying sense of stillness that had the smell of trouble and urgency, as though the entire strange world was waiting with bated breath for something to happen. The very air felt thick, clotted with the anxiety of anticipation. But nothing was happening, not that she could see.

But then, out of the farthest corner of her eye, she caught a trace of movement, a speck of it, off in the distance. Taking a few steps closer to the edge of the forest, toward the grassy carpet of ground that stretched out across the horizon to meet a deep, dusky blue sky, she squinted in an attempt to better see what the moving shape was. It's edges were blurred as the rest of the place, and the harder she tried to focus, the more distorted her eyesight became. For a moment, she wondered if she had simply imagined it…until it came again, and this time she knew it was no figment or mirage. Someone was walking through the tall, fresh grass.

As though she'd been pinched and startled into action, she set off at a run. Streaking like a bolt of light from the shade of the trees toward the far-off figure, she flew faster than was humanly possible, even for a dream, somehow aided by the world around her which shoved her feet forward. Her breath came out in gasps that would have hurt if she were in a real body, green eyes fixed to the spot of motion that grew larger and larger the nearer she got, until...

With an ungraceful lurch, she came to a stop, skidding clumsily against the grassy ground and raking up great clods of soil, throwing back her head to look at the sky. She hadn't noticed before, but suddenly she could see that the twilit sky – dark and rich as velvet – that had been completely devoid of any speck of light just seconds ago was now streaked with stars. But these were not the kind of stars she understood, for they were larger than they should have been, brighter, and shaped…wrong. As they fell like shimmering comets, to her eyes, they seemed almost to be carved like human figures with pearly, iridescent skin and fire-like hair, each draped in smoky material that could have been a watery imitation of fabric.

Not all of them fell, some far-off lights clung to the heavens. But those who fell never regained their balance or grip, or whatever it was that had once held them up in the sky.

Movement startled her into tearing her eyes away from the falling stars and back to the meadow, where, just a few scant yards to her right, a little blond boy was slowly, distractedly walking. Upon second glance, she realized he was more of a youth than a boy, mid-adolescence rather than childhood attributing to his slender build and slighter height. Despite his age, his physical form was muscular, fit, agile and graceful, short gold hair complimenting a light skin tone and countered violently by pure black slacks. He was hazy, difficult to look at directly, and shone with an aura of light that was warmer than that of the stars, though it seemed to mirror their distress by glowing brighter white.

Somehow, she knew without really knowing, that this was a very young angel standing beside her, looking up at the sky with the same kind of intrigue that she had, the same kind of curious awe, though perhaps with a little less inability to understand. As a matter of fact, he seemed positively horrified. Riveted to the events unfolding in the night sky, he watched as first one, then another star collided with the meadow's earth, inner fires smoking out and crumbling, crippled and mangled, into dust. Jolted from their kingdom in the sky, they fell and disintegrated.

They were dying.

Lilith didn't so much as breathe as star after star fell, crumpled, and died. She had no clear feelings, no way to know how to define the sheer weight of unbelievable grief that wracked her body, the mixture of fear and guilt and rage and disappointment, the sadness, so much awful sadness, that swallowed her sense of anything else. When the next star fell just inches from where the boy stood, she turned and looked at it, at the brilliant, shining female with the broken body, who managed to stay alive long enough to meet his eyes with hers, icy chips of sapphire.

She touched his cheek, and Lilith felt a pang of icy cold blaze like flame along the side of her face. And then, the star's brilliance faded, only to implode into whiteness a moment later. The woman's form vanished, sank into dust held together by a mixture of magic and willpower, and flowed directly into the boy, wrapping his body in a sheen of white and pale blue sparks that glittered and danced over his skin. Like a brand, a crushing pain seized her chest, her heart screaming its agony into her blood, searing fire knifing its way in and quickly out again.

Lilith fell to her knees, blinded, unable to cry out for the pain of it, tears streaming down her cheeks, hands pressed to her sternum to hold her ribs together; because if she didn't, all her insides were going to burst from her body like overripe fruit.

As soon as it had come, however, the sightless, terrifying chaos of the moment ceased to exist. Its passing left her weakened, breathless and shaky. Blinking back the leftover tears from her reddened eyes, she peered timidly around for the boy, wiping at her face, and found him standing just where he'd been before, as though completely untouched by the white light that had struck her with such a violent ferocity. Untouched...except that his aura was trembling. The glow that surrounded him had dimmed almost to nothing but a soft lightness that visibly shivered right along with his limbs, two hands raised before him, palms up and pierced through by the gaze belonging to an uncertain face.

Her heart thumped inside her chest, the beat pronounced and distinctly separate from any other, almost to the point of being unsettling. It did so a second time, harder, the organ slamming into her beast-bone as though railing to be let out, forcing her body to curl in on itself, bending her spine. Alarmed, she pressed her palm to her chest, eyes flying to the boy, a call for help ready on her lips.

But he had hunched over at the exact moment she had, bent almost double and shaking in his effort to remain standing. His hands clutched at his own chest, the pain wracking his blurred face and causing his aura to throb with the emanation of it. Yet as her heart beat quickened, turned irregular, jolted itself out of harmony like a watch's gears cracking and faltering out of use, he slowly began to straighten, drawing cupped hands away from his sternum and staring down at the shining violet thing that rested inside them.

The flames of magic licked at its jeweled facets, filling the air with the sweet scent of lavender and tarnished silver. A living thing, both beautiful and terrible to behold. She couldn't look away, not even as her vision faded and gave way to black, blood trickling from her nose and the corner of her mouth, replacing the tears that trailed from her eyes without ceasing.

Overloaded, her dream-body shucked her spirit, returned it to the reality that found her opening real eyes and taking a real breath into lungs that twinged just enough to alert her to the fact that she had been soundlessly screaming for who knew how long. A dog face peered at her from the foot of the bed, concerned, but somehow aware that she was well enough to be getting back to sleep with a wuff and a swish of furry tail. Lilith, for her own part, lay awake for a moment, startled by the physical impact the dream had had on her, and just as startled by the vividness of the images that had burned themselves into her brain, refusing to fade like most dreams did.

Whatever it was she had just seen, she knew that its relevance to her was somehow quite extreme.

More importantly, at some point in time during the universe's life, it had actually _happened_.

* * *

**Hello readers!!**

**First order of business, my apology for making you wait for an update. As I've explained, none of volume 2 has been written yet, therefore I'm composing everything on the spot instead of editing, and that takes me A LOT longer to do. Also, that's why these chapters are probably not as refined as the volume 1 was. They will be someday.**

**Second order of business...the plot's moving right along! I know the first half of this chapter was kinda _meh_, mostly human-relations stuffs, the wedding plans, blah blah blah. It's necessary, believe me. We'll get to more fun and exciting (and yes, sexy!) things a little later on. Like the last part of the chapter! The importance is staggering. Yet, probably only really so in a certain light. Ish. Also, take note, those of you who've read my "Deleted Scenes" story-block, there's another POV on the dream in there. Can anyone find it? More importantly, can anyone figure out what's going on?? **

**Third order of business, thank you so much to all of you who found and reviewed last chapter! I saw lots of familiar names...I'm so happy to hear from you all again!! I hope I manage to keep at least some of you interested as the story progresses. I love you all so much, you readers (most especially those of you angels who review, pun very much intended...though I suppose you could be demons if you prefer!) really are what keeps this whole adventure going forward. From the middle of my heart, THANK YOU SO MUCH! **

**Please continue to show your support by reviewing for me? :D I'll try to get the next chapter up as soon as is possible.**

**Until next time!**


	3. Shell

**Chapter 3: Shell**

Recommended Listening: "Crazy" by Alanis Morissette and  
"Vesper" by David Arnold (from Casino Royale)

* * *

A human body couldn't fly without wings, not even for an immortal inhabiting one. The willowy little female made no move to spread hers, no move to call them from the recesses of her spiritual body to use them; instead she used her power for in a swift, fleet-footed run. Wingless flight in the form of a static speed, almost birdlike in both shape and motion. She was built light, slim and elegant, her face – or what could be seen from under the sooty black hood drawn over it – was fair-featured and pale-skinned with high, graceful cheekbones and a soft, shapely mouth. Yet at the moment when she leapt masterfully from the edge of the bank's lofty roof to the rail of the neighboring hotel's top level, that mouth was pursed into a fine, unsmiling line.

Featuring a flourishing vegetable and flower garden with neatly paved walkways, benches, and a smaller outdoor swimming pool, the roof served as a quaint, adequate shelter with just enough offer of camouflage to suit her needs. A dark backdrop was a necessary thing every once in a while, especially when fleeing from a potential disaster zone.

Perched precariously, both feet and one hand balanced atop the metal railing, she lifted her face to the air. Sniffing delicately, inhuman senses tasted, defined and catalogued the various layers of scent dancing upon the morning. Belying the pound of adrenaline in her chakra veins, there was nothing in the breeze to give evidence that anything at all was amiss. Yet that was an enviable lie. There was something out there, a hidden malice brewing upon the coming dawn, masked in the eerie calm that came before the storm.

She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, back toward the direction from which she'd come and the lanky male angel who landed silently beside her a flicker of an instant later. "Did you kill it?" she asked her lieutenant, a wearied sort of urgency lining the sweet, bell-like sound of her voice.

With a nod of his head, the tail of hair the color of a wheat-field burnt and gilded by the sun slipped from the confines of a recently discarded hood, his mild, gentle features openly concerned. "As well as I could," he admitted quietly, with some muted trace of frustration pacing underneath. "But you know it'll just come right back as soon as the moon rises again."

"And no humans saw?"

"Not a one." He adjusted the weapon slung across his back with one hand, forearms softly tanned and bared by rolled-up sleeves, contrasted heavily against the matte black of the magically-altered sniper rifle slung across his back by a smooth leather strap. It had been built specifically for him by the smiths, attuned to his affinity for long-distance combat and incredible sense of aim. Expression grim as he cast his sight outward, far into distances mortal eyes couldn't gage. "I don't like that you've been sent to deal with this. It's not fitting."

Enoch smiled then, a soft, affectionate curve of her lips that said very clearly that this bickering statement was not strange to her ears. Two-toned eyes – one bright blue, one rose-cordial pink – sparkled when she looked at him and chastened gently: "Nathanael, you know there's no other choice."

"I know," he groused unhappily, rising from his crouch to stand atop his section of railing without a single hint of a wobble. "Since the Crusaders died out, there's no one else left to deal with the leeches."

"And since matters of diplomatic secrecy are our business..." She let the statement hang, waiting for the acquiescence that was sure to come.

Nathanael sighed, dissatisfied, but resigned. "Yes, Milady," he agreed, bowing his head. As small and slight as she was, his general had never taken kindly to disobedience. It was never wise to bait a seraph under pressure.

Standing gracefully, Enoch reached into the breast-pocket of her lieutenant's shroud and extracted a sphere of clear glass, a communications crystal the size of a small Christmas orange. She polished it with her sleeve, diligently rubbing its smooth surface until it shone, catching the loud glow of the havoc of street lights, neon signs and waning traffic down below. Even this early in the morning the city was alive and bustling, even if that bustle was lessened by more than half of its daylight activity.

Letting her breath fan upon the glass cupped in her palm she coiled a string of magic about its breadth, called softly, "_Bera'hiu?_" and waited. The attention of both her two-toned eyes and her lieutenant's of amber maple locked, attentive and hopeful, to the orb that swirling briefly with electric blue, then faded to the clouded white of the pending limbo of message-travel. Neither angel expected the glass to glow with metallic gold, the shade accented by silver sparks which fizzed and popped beneath the surface, nor the lazy voice that came from across great distance in reply.

"You've reached the answering machine of the Manal Infantry Commanding Officers. We're all out of the bunker at present, but if you'd like to make an appointment—"

"Beelzebub," Enoch interrupted, wearily amused, "what are you doing with one of Azrael's crystals?"

"Well hey there, little lady!" the demon prince crooned in greeting, voice amplified in order to be heard over some kind of muffled racket in the background on his end of the magical wire. "How goes the secrecy-upkeep?"

With a dignified exhale, Nathanael answered, "as well as it can."

Enoch merely smiled.

"Ahh, yeah, that's typical. And to answer your question, Azrael happens to be occupied with a couple of miscreant fire-Ruhins." That explained the cacophony of hissing and banging going on, the fire-elemental demons were loud and obnoxious, if not overly threatening or dangerous. They just needed to be taken to task for their mischief, rather like ill-behaved cats. "Want me to fetch him?"

Enoch rolled the glass about, back and forth in small circles upon her palm. "When he has a minute," she said, "I'd like to ask a favor first."

"Shoot."

"Technically we're adequately-staffed, but the truth is, we just can't be everywhere at once. Sooner or later we'll start missing breaches, and we can't afford the publicity. The mages are busy enough without us having to drag them from their work to erase memories."

For a moment, Beelzebub was quiet, then he made a quiet noise in the back of this throat that was echoed by a swish of heavyweight fabric. The noise from the background eased in volume, signaling that he'd gone indoors and away from the ruckus. "You want to recycle the system we used in Rome?" he inquired.

Exchanging a grim, but supportive glance with her lieutenant, Enoch agreed, "I think that would be best. I've never seen an initial pulse of invaders so aggressive before...we're going to need all the aides we can get our hands on."

"Right. I'll start filtering and get some help to you. I should be able to convince the Gryffins and the rest of those with grudges against dear ol' dad and have some strings of loyalty still attached, and some others I could probably threaten, too. There're a lot of folks down southwards who owe me favors..."

"No," Enoch interrupted gently, her fine mouth set firm as she said it, "we want those who will be willing to help, no one I have to monitor for fear of exposure." She pushed back her hood and ran a hand through the jagged razor-layers of her electric blue hair.

The demon prince's wry bemused smile could be heard through his tone as he said, "whatever you say, princess. I'll see what I can do. Oh, here's your bro."

An exchange of possession took place, the globe on the other end slipping from Beelzebub to Azrael's hand with a smooth flush of flame inside the one she held between three fingertips. Harmony was rare in a swap of bearers, but all things considered, Azael's violet consumed and replaced the demon's metallic, silver-sparked gold with a rather unflustered grace. "Enoch?" he clarified, sounding a little edgy despite the note of enthusiasm that said he was happy to hear from her. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes," she waved aside the protective brotherly instinct to worry. "I just thought I'd report."

"How is the surveying going?" The sound flickered once in the middle, a sound that, to all intents and purposes, seemed to imply that the angel of death had seated himself on some nearby surface to rest.

"Oh, it's palatable enough. Our exorcists are stretched pretty thin to cover all the ground there is, but we're working on narrowing down any specific areas that are being targeted, and if any, why said targeting is happening. Nathanael and I tracked a total of five bands out wandering tonight alone—"

"_Five?_" Azrael's tone was sharp with alarm. "What is your location?"

She took a glance, eyeing the bright, flashing signs that lined the streets and roadways tracking below them like open-roofed tunnels. "Hong Kong. A city, and crowded, so the concentration here isn't so unusual."

"Even still," her twin sighed, and it was not a happy sound. "The Dead Days are almost here," he added, and seemed to take heart from his own words. "Once the rite is passed and the barriers are renewed we will be better equipped to deal with these invasions."

"Yes."

"Who has been assigned to conduct this year, do you know?" The sound of glass upon glass clinked quietly in the background. Probably from a wine-bottle to a glass.

"Me," Enoch switched the crystal to her other hand, using the newly emptied one to smooth her hair back into line and pull her hood up. "And Gabriel, I think."

Thinking of the ceremony-based holiday made her feel much calmer, as it should have. The five days of energy-massing focus from every angelic presence was annually directed to strengthening the barrier spells which stretched between hell and the earth, making it more difficult to pass from one to the other, by transport or by possession. As the year went by, pressing through the spells got easier, which was probably why there was such an adamant surge of activity; undoubtedly all part of Lucifer's plan, to get as many agents placed while security was low and vulnerable. Thank goodness the ceremony was only a week away.

"Good. In the meantime, Beelzebub tells me you plan to reinstate the old cooperation policy. Hopefully that will give you some support." The sound of swallowing. "Most of our action has been little things, trifles like Ruhin and scouts, nothing truly serious."

Nathanael shifted uneasily at his perch, and Enoch couldn't blame his anxiety. That sounded an awful lot like Lucifer was toying with them, declaring war without even launching a real assault. Maybe he was taking advantage of the barriers' weakness, but it simply made no sense to _play_ with the infantry. "What do you think that means?" The answer was something she dreaded.

"Who can know?" Azrael's words were soft, but blackened and dour, heavy with his own suspicions and hypotheses. "I am certain we will find out sooner or later." He took another drink of wine, swallowed, and set down the glass with another muted clink. "I apologize, I must get back to issuing discipline to my uninvited guests. Will you be all right until Beel can get aides to you?"

"We'll be fine," she stated, knowing that regardless of whatever chanced to happen between now and whenever help would come, her people would have to manage. They always had before. And humans were more skeptical of magic and mystic, supernatural happenings than ever.

"Only a week more to go," Azrael reminded, and the way he said it made her remember kinder days, when they had both been naught but children, innocent and naive, before there had ever been such thing a hell. Back when Lucifel had still lived. Before God had needed a Voice or a minister of death. Before Azrael's heart had been changed.

Suddenly he didn't sound so good.

She managed to sound heartened by the comfort extended, agreeing: "one week, then we'll kick some butt." Yet when he laughed, issued a farewell to his sister, and the crystal went dark in her hand, nothing but empty glass once more, what was left of her smile fell away.

Nathanael took the crystal from her, stowing it away, and indicated that they should move on; they still had much ground to survey before the sun came up and time was running short. She nodded, wiping a thin sheet of nervous sweat from her hands and signing to him to circle to the west before meeting up with her in Tokyo. His take-off was swift, turning him to a shadowy blur in the dark.

"What do you want, Luci?" she whispered, her eyes sad as they drank in the clouded, starless winter sky.

But that was a question no one had an answer to.

* * *

She'd had lower back pain before, but the remembrance of pained-times past didn't seem quite as severe as she felt when attempting to sit up and get out of bed that morning.

Slapping at the cheerfully blaring alarm clock, Lilith shifted gingerly and put a hand to her lower back muscles, wincing when the area just above and below her kidneys pulled in a way that caused her nerves to whine rather piteously. Curse those _ponches_! Of all the steps to bow out with, Jessica had just _had_ to have them work on the one mutant-arabesque that did murder to her back. She sighed and told herself to enjoy the strain of good-soreness from dance while she still could, then inched her way to a standing position and headed for the bathroom...feeling distinctly aged and crotchety.

The shower helped, though the massage setting did hurt a little at first, numbing some of the strain stretched between ribs and bottom. Soon enough she was able to move on, set the showerhead back to spray, and shampoo her hair as was needed. She had woken up not only sore, but feeling greasy, as though a layer of sweat had coated her skin in her sleep. That wouldn't have been surprising, considering the dream she'd had and the affect it had on her physically. All the same, it was gross, and she fully intended to use the rest of her slivered soap-bar if she had to.

Lilith's hands slid on the slippery bar, almost dropping it on her foot and catching her grip back just in time to resume soaping her legs. Her mind wandered, body performing the mundane tasks of bathing without having to direct it consciously. Thinking back to that dream and what she had seen, she wondered what the little boy had pulled from his chest, the silver, jewel-like object wreathed in purple fire. She'd never seen anything of its like before, and while she was certain the scene had contained some kind of importance, she didn't know what to make of it. A portion of her brain told her that she should have been entirely creeped out by the whole thing. The part that won out (and curiously, the more significant) had no problem with the idea of extracting something from between dream-made ribs.

Stepping from the tub and wiping the fog from the mirror's surface with her towel, she took a look at her reflection and made a face. It was one of those days when she didn't feel even remotely attractive, the kind where she couldn't understand how anyone could find her moderately acceptable, let alone close to pretty. They'd come less often since Azrael had entered her life, but they still snuck up on her, picking and snide and unhelpful. With a soft sigh, she dried off, wringing excess water from her hair, and padded back into the bedroom to find some clothes.

The blue-black patterned blouse and thin white shirt-jacket folded neatly over her arm with a pair of casual black pants, laid along the foot of the bed to await being put on. Yet she paused before she could move any farther, attention caught and held by a pink-striped bag tucked away at the back of the underwear drawer she had begun to pilfer for a clean bra. Blushing faintly, she snatched her hand back mid-reach for it. Then, slowly, reached again to pick it up and peer cautiously inside, between layers of crinkling tissue paper, and recalling – with some chagrin – what Sarah had said about pretty underwear improving self-esteem. She was a little skeptical, but willing to try if it meant improving her day.

The matching black satin set slid over her skin like a fabric the consistency of butter, lying close, alluringly scandalous in fit. A trim of lace at the edges flashed skin beneath, tantalizing and surprisingly pretty, suiting a classically modern taste. She wasn't sure quite what to make of herself once she located the mirror again, angling this way and that to see what she looked like in the new items, but it certainly didn't feel like a bad thing.

To heck with it. She owned the darned things, she may as well get their moneys worth out of them!

Clothing donned, hair sufficiently blow-dried and tied in a neat ponytail, she was putting in her earrings, and promptly doubting herself. Wondering uneasily whether or not to toss the idea and change into underwear better suited to a girl with her modesty, when the ringing of the telephone called her from her musings and into the kitchen. Grabbing its from its cradle and holding it to her ear, she greeted, "hello?" and took advantage of her location to start up the coffee pot with the poke of a finger.

"Good morning, sweetheart!"

Her uncle's voice was cheery, somewhat apologetic, and insufferably exuberant for six o'clock in the morning. She smiled, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her fingers, and said, "morning. How're you?"

"Oh, I'm peachy keen. I know you've got work, and I know I'm a little early, but I wanted to give you a ring and ask what you're plans are for Christmas this year."

Christmas?

She hadn't realized it was so late into December already, and put it down to the fact that her concept of time had been a little worse for the wear lately. Then again, the holiday season had never been her favorite time of year; it was an annual reminder of her lack of a real family, and almost always made her feel isolated and alone.

The Christmases of her youth had been no different from any other day of the year apart from the lack of two weeks of school, two weeks of hiding from an angry, beer-sodden father with a heavy hand and a quick temper. Her only decorations had been a few painstakingly crafted paper projects assembled in school, paper-chains strung across windowsill and lamp, colored depictions of Santa Claus and his reindeer fixed to the walls with scotch tape. There was no communal baking of cookies, drinking of eggnog or marathons of holiday movies, no singing carols, no presents. Not in that house. Money went to food and beer, occasionally clothes, and other necessities more important that the commercialized waste that was Christmas.

Lilith had secretly loved the season, even when she couldn't have it for herself. Upon her emancipation, she had strived to celebrate it in her own way; with little things mostly, making caramels and iced sugar cookies to share at work, stringing cranberries and a string of secondhand lights across her living room. On Christmas eves, she would sit down on her couch with a glass of milk and a plate of goodies shared at the library's back-room table piled high with holiday treats, and watch as many featured films as she could before falling asleep. In the morning, if the weather was nice, she would go for a walk and savor the time of love and giving and good things.

All the same, Christmas was a lonely time. Even with a circle of loving friends readily inviting her to come spend it with them and their kin, she had always declined the offers, preferring not to enter a situation that would have been awkward beyond all reason. No one wanted or needed an outsider in their midst during the holidays. But with Daniel back in New York, maybe there would be some chance of a more pleasant Christmas to be had.

"I don't have any plans, actually," she reported, suppressing a yawn and shooting the coffee-maker an agitated look, wishing it would hurry up and brew already.

Sounding surprised, Daniel asked, "what, you aren't going out with Adrian or anything?"

Biting her lip, Lilith did some quick calculating, unsure of what to say. She knew what Azrael had instructed her to use as an excuse, but a fib revolving around Service duty was a potential bomb to put past Daniel, who had been a Marine dog since before she could remember. Yet she couldn't think of any other reason to give him. "He's in Iraq, something surveillance related—"

"He's military? A dancer in _military?_"

She winced, having expected just that reaction. "Yeah, I thought you'd say that." Pulling down a mug from the cupboard above the refrigerator for her coffee, she set it on the counter and rifled through the bread drawer for a bagel. "But it's true. Adrian's..." She searched for a word that seemed a fitting and accurate description. "...complex."

"Well I'll be damned," Daniel's voice held more astonished admiration than anything that could possibly be negative. "I wouldn't have guessed, but I suppose it's in his blood. What branch is he?"

How was _she _supposed to know?

"Army," she provided firmly, pouring herself coffee and popping the pre-sliced bagel into the toaster.

"Ah...yeah, I can see that." He went quiet for a moment, then, gently, "I'm sorry, though. What a time to get deployed."

She said nothing, merely looked down at her mug of coffee, black, creamless. He was right. What a time to be left alone. Considering it now, she would have liked to have her angel with her for the season. Maybe it was greedy, but she wasn't sure she cared. That kind of petty want was better than warfare.

A canine head nuzzled her knee, the thick fur-fall of nine tails brushing her ankles. Cerberus' pale eyes were peering silently up at her when she looked reflexively downward, as if inquiring as to whether she was all right or not. He tilted his head, wuffing quietly. She broke off a piece of freshly toasted bagel, and smiled when he took it delicately, careful not to nip her with his teeth as he ate the proffered treat. Like his master, Cerberus had no real need to eat, but he seemed to enjoy food.

Rubbing his ears, she was jolted back to the phone as her uncle exclaimed: "of course, this means you'll be spending the holiday with me—"

"Really?"

"Yes, really!" he cried, "I can't remember the last Christmas I shared with good company. Besides, I want to show you the new house. It'll be fun! I'll get a ham and eggnog and everything."

With a subdued snort of laughter, Lilith clarified, "you're going to cook a ham?"

"I can cook," Daniel defended breezily. "But I suppose I should let you go and get ready for work... Promise you'll come?"

"You know I will," she said quietly, a warm, paper-thin sheet of happiness wrapping close about her heart as she did so.

"It's a date, then!" She could feel his smile over the line. "I'll get details to you when I have them, ok?"

"Sure."

"All right, sweetheart, I'll talk to you later. Have a good day, now."

"You too, uncle Dan." Lilith hung up just after he did, still aimlessly scratching Cerberus around the ears for comfort and for touch. Sipping thoughtfully at her coffee, she buttered her bagel, hardly tasting the cinnamon and raisin swirls in the bread as she ate. It was as if a lightness had warmed her up inside, something to fill the gap Azrael's absence had left behind, something to add to the list taking her thoughts away from the bad things. For once, she wouldn't be spending Christmas alone.

Realizing, with a glance at the calendar, that she had less than a week to buy presents, she squeaked in alarm and dove for a notepad, jotting down lists of ideas and necessities to be bought for the season she had almost completely forgotten.

At a quarter to seven she grabbed her winter coat, a nice, long grey cotton-wool blend with large black buttons, and a blue hand-crocheted scarf. Slipping on her shoes and assembling purse, keys, and packed lunch, she gave Cerberus (sitting on his haunches by the door to see her off) a farewell ear-rubbing. She knew very well that he would be with her throughout the day, but she still felt it prudent to treat the dog like she would any human roommate.

Ready to start the workday, she headed out the door and locked up. The cold was almost blistering, snapping redness into her cheeks and a chatter to her teeth even after several minutes in the heated car, and once she arrived at the library, she stared out at the winter morning and dreaded the trek from parking lot to back door. In a desperate sprint, she streaked to the door, slipping once or twice on the filmy sheet of frost that lined the cement like a glazed icing, and let herself in with a speedy turn of her key and a hard shove to the heavy metal-lined barrier. While not altogether warm without the heat being on, the lack of breeze inside made it seem much warmer inside, and Lilith breathed a quiet sigh of relief before hanging her coat and stowing her things in the break room.

She made the customary opening rounds, hitting light switches and power buttons as she went, and settled herself at the check-in desk to start on the heavily laden book-drop bins. Being the first one there besides Jill (who croaked a feeble hello from her desk across the room), she settled into the peace and easy routine of the shift, supplementing her breakfast bagel with a handful of sliced apple chunks someone had left in the fridge, its attached note reading: _please eat! _

When Sarah arrived, arm-in-arm with Renae and giggling up a storm, Lilith offered a smile and a wave, and continued scanning items. That was until the redhead – lurid in bright pink tunic-dress over jeans – pranced over, waving a piece of paper scrawled black with notes.

"Look, look!" She squealed excitedly, "plots for the reception! I'll leave them in your box, I want your opinion on the food ideas."

Relocating her stack of triggered holds, their destination slips crinkling as she dumped them in an empty shipping tote, Lilith took a glance at the copious amount of writing and resigned herself to a distinctly non-relaxing lunch. "Ok," she promised, blowing a strand of dark hair from her eyes and reaching for a new stack of CDs to be scanned. Sarah didn't so much as move, and Lilith looked up to see her friend waiting somewhat expectantly, doe brown eyes hinting with just a little laughter. "Oh! Um, I called the florist and arranged for bouquets and decor flowers as well as corsages for us. I need to know how many guys need boutonnieres."

"Check," Sarah whipped out a yellow pocket spiral-notebook and made a note, crossed out something else, then tucked it away. "One more thing, keep your head open for bachelorette party ideas." Turning to a nearby computer, she began assisting with the drop-bins, piling stack after stack of movies onto her table.

Raising her eyebrows, Lilith retorted (with slight traces of caution), "I thought you always said whichever of us gets married first is getting a strip-club party."

A sheepish smile curved the corners of Sarah's pink-glossed mouth. "Yeah, well, things change. For one, strippers aren't Alice's thing, and it's her party. Then there's the gentlemen's feelings to consider..." Catching sight of Lilith's questioning look, she explained: "I doubt Elijah or Adrian would be thrilled to know their girls are visiting male strippers, even if it is only for a party." She shrugged, a small hitch of her shoulders, and turned back to her screen. "Mark wasn't too keen on it either."

Mildly startled, Lilith stared at the back of Sarah's head, eyes full of short, loose surface curls, and not really seeing them. It was surprising to hear Sarah give way to the opinions of the men involved, let alone to let go of a pet-project she'd been plotting since high school so gracefully. It wasn't her way to forgo an excuse to throw a wild party. Or...it hadn't seemed to be. Could it be that this boyfriend of hers was actually doing her some good and calming her down after all?

"Mark, huh?" Lilith inquired casually, hoping it might coax her friend into talking.

"Yeah." Hands stilling mid-process of checking DVDs for their matching discs, Sarah stopped and shot Lilith a happy smile over her blindingly pink shoulder. "I know, it's weird. But I just feel so comfortable with him. It's like I've known him for ages...I feel more like myself than I have in years."

Returning the smile, Lilith turned back to her work, listening fondly as Sarah gushed about her relationship with the newest man in her life. Mark was a brown-haired, blue-eyed soccer player with a love of soup and Humphrey Bogart movies. He was an English teacher at a local high school and had made it his life goal to find ways to inspire a passion for Steinbeck and Shakespeare in the students that walked through his door. He was patient, stable, kindly, and (most importantly) he seemed to provide a calm, steady counterpoint to Sarah's reckless, daring nature. And from the sound of it, she was completely taken with him. Unlike all the other flings and halfhearted partnerships she'd had before, she appeared to be taking this one seriously – an assumption Lilith felt she could safely make based on the fact that Sarah squealed more over her beau's brains and humor than his looks.

Lilith thought it was the best thing that could have happened to her friend.

"I'm serious, Lili, I think he's the one," Sarah insisted, her eyes faintly glowing with the flushed meld of adoration and fresh enthusiasm. She had the look of the love-struck, and not simply by way of a quick-to-form-and-quick-to-end wanting but of a real attachment. It was in her face, the light flush to her cheeks and the pearl-like luster of complete contentment that radiated from her like an aura, and certainly would have if humans possessed them.

That unhindered sweetness, the sugary bliss of it was something Lilith understood. Granted, it had taken her a good few hard shakes and a couple brushes with disaster before she'd got it through her head, but for Sarah it was coming so easily, so smoothly and wonderfully. It was difficult to find a good partner, much harder than it sometimes seemed, even from Lilith's skewed point of view; after all, most girls went their lives without being insistently wooed by tender-hearted angels that could prove they were worthy to be involved in those girls' lives. Quests to find the illusive soul mate were fraught with the dangers of heartache and unwise choices. That Sarah felt she had found her own angel (of a kind) by braving the streams of human courtship was no less than fabulous.

Lilith could feel herself reaching out for her friend and fellow woman, eager to share in the beautiful feeling of love. She slid an arm around Sarah's ribs and gave her a quick hug. "I'm so glad," she murmured, smiling up at the slightly taller girl, green eyes emanating happiness for the victory.

"Thanks, hun." Sarah's smile was soft and gentle, and it made her seem so at peace with herself, more of a woman than the girl she had continued to be. Released from Lilith's embrace, she set herself to loading all her newly checked-in items onto a cart to be shelved by the pages when they arrived, popping a problem item missing its disc onto Lilith's table to be properly dealt with (and ignoring Lilith's playfully chastisement, which was a lightly slapped wrist). "I was beginning to think I'd never find a guy to have kids with!"

Just managing to hide a shudder, Lilith shook her head as she scanned the disc-less DVD case and made a note in its record stating the patron who'd had it last, the problem, and the library location where it was being held. "I can't believe you want to have kids," she said frankly, trying her hardest not to think about the ordeal that would be involved.

Sarah scoffed. "Just because _you_ think the idea of childbirth is terrifying doesn't mean the rest of us do. Ooh, I hope Alice gets pregnant...I can't wait to be an aunty!" And squealing rather shrilly, she danced off in a beckoning Donna's direction to help the lead LA check the money and set up the cash register for the day, leaving Lilith to finish her miniature mountain of check-in and the seed of an idea to include pregnancy tests as a part of Sarah's Christmas present.

All in all, really, it was looking like the start of a good day.

* * *

**Greetings! I'm so happy, it didn't take me as long to write this as I thought it would. The next chapter, on the other hand...we'll see. **

**I'd intended to do more with the first scene, but then I remembered/decided that it's better if I go slowly with the action because we're still at something of pre-chaos impasse, and nothing is really going on at all. As far as reality goes, this happens. As far as fiction goes, it just sucks to read. This means there's going to be some time-skipping in the near future, starting with the next chapter, after which I'll pause for a bit, and then another skip will come along. After that second skip the action should stay more steady (or it might just be there at all!). It's difficult to find ways to pass time to get from where we are in the story now to where we need to get to, and I've been crossing off littler details that have needed to be covered as I try to amuse you all with fluff and suspense and try NOT to bore you all to tears. Next chapter should be more interesting, I hope.**

**Lilith's also continuing to evolve as a character, as I'm sure was noticed last chapter. At the beginning of Volume I, she wasn't the type to pine over anything, let alone some man, and now she's trying to make herself avoid just that. I put in some more detail about her childhood; in part to give the audience a bit of knowledge as we go along, and in part to further define the idea of a difficult youth. Yes, her father was abusive, but he wasn't a two-faced character who smiles at everything else and then just gets randomly pissed and beats his daughter. His character is more cynical and down-trodden, more misguided human than villain, and I wanted to make that a little clearer. It's just one of the tidbits I tend to give out amidst the commentary. I'm hoping more people develop an affection for Lilith as time goes on. She's not going to be nearly as emotionally unstable in this book! **

**Speaking of which, the reason for that instability should be making an appearance within the next ten chapters or so (I know, what a promise, right?)...we shall see.**

**Until next time, lovelies! **


	4. Pagan Poetry

**Chapter 4: Pagan Poetry**

Recommended Listening: "The Host of Seraphim" by Dead Can Dance, "The Call"  
by Regina Spektor, "Blessing of the Boat" and "Portia" by David Juritz  
(from The Merchant of Venice)

* * *

"I am not amused," Azrael set the five scrolls down on the polished ebony desktop with a decisive clunk of heavy, gold-plated handles, "by these antics."

It was a beautiful desk, great and gleaming from its treatment with soft oils and careful shining, with legs carved with stars and elegant knot work ending with curved feet, heavy with thick, sturdy surface and deep drawers. As the centerpiece to the room it shone, a small slice of glory on the center of a rough-hewn plate. Over the centuries, the Eyrie had gained the touches of a home of sorts to those that dwelled there. However, the chambers were often sparsely furnished. Any time spent there was during a time of conflict and there was little time or attention to be spent on decorating their living quarters.

This room, used as a study and private council chamber, was constructed of the same mountain stone as the rest of the fortress, yet its owner had taken the effort to alter the strict, formidable appearance by strewing the walls with fabric of an airy cream shade. Much like stepping into an indoor tent, it was simple, but served its purpose of offering a formal kind of comfort. Aside from the bookcases that lined one wall and the chairs posed at either side of the desk, the room was completely empty.

Azrael was not the type to let his chambers remain barren and less than welcoming. However, since the amount of time he actually spent in these was limited, mostly guided under some task that took the majority of his attention, and because sometimes it was wise to have a room at hand in which to conduct business that lacked the homey touches of warmth and openness. There were times when diplomacy called for the thinly veiled threat that lingered in a cold space. Such as dealing with miscreants.

He was not an impatient man, not by nature, yet he found himself unusually quick-tempered as he rested his palms flat against the edge of the desk, the watery-silk of his full black sleeves draping the surface. Faintly, the fabric shimmered; fine embroidered feather designs silver and musical, complimenting the room and the wearer. With an arched brow, he looked down his nose at the three demons that lounged before him, completely at ridiculous, almost insulting ease, in the chairs meant for guests.

Ruhin were elemental demons of a relatively simple character, their entire purpose was driven toward pastimes of causing mischief, playing tricks and games and causing small bits of havoc wherever they went. This particular trio were of the fire variety, slim and scaly, their skin an ashen color and consistency that made them seem that they were covered in a layer of charcoal. But upon touching one, they were solid and real, unnaturally warm of temperature, and smelled faintly of sulfur mixed with wood smoke. The gem-like scales that accented the curves of their figures, their coal-orange eyes, and the specks of mineral-toned light that freckled their faces made them seem pretty, entrancing, even...but they were really more trouble than they were worth. Especially when it came to stealing and misplacing weaponry and supplies.

Most especially when those weapons had been specially designed treasures constructed specifically for their owners by the smiths, and the supplies were stores of gemstones, dried plants, and oils used for spell casting, things they would need once true conflict began.

"Once was efficiently irritating, but this is quite enough," Azrael asserted, perfectly aware that chastisement was getting him nowhere judging by the idly bored expressions on the three faces opposite him. One was braiding another's stringy gold-flecked hair, the smallest of three who was situated across her lap, the other two playing with one another's toes as though he weren't even in the room. Swallowing a sigh, he asked quietly, "Are you listening to me?"

"Sure, sure," the smaller sister waved her hand at him, the manner of which was a not even remotely disguised brush-off.

It annoyed him.

"Somehow I do not believe you are," he stated, fine lips firm to guard against an outward display of his desire to be done with them. "Need I remind you that it is my domain into which you have come uninvited, my stores you have been raiding, and my mages you have been causing trouble for?"

The Ruhin with her hands in her sister's hair shrugged, nonchalant to the point of rudeness. "You're not an authority to us," was her reply. "Bring us our prince and maybe we'll consider negotiation."

Of all the times for Beelzebub to leave! He was gathering supporters to send for the aid of Enoch's exorcists, indisposed and unreachable until he returned to resume his place as Azrael's captain. Yet explaining this would do no good; not when they wanted formal negotiation headed by a monarch. All the same, manners of a political nature dictated that he do no less than extend the courtesy of that explanation, even under conditions of a disagreeable nature. "His Infernal Highness is in Hell upon urgent business of his own and is unable to negotiate with you," his voice was even, belying nothing of his exasperation. His eyes did all the work, turning pale, streaked with magenta that was frustration and easily-accessed irritability.

"That's too bad," the oldest-looking sister mused, her smile an uncaring taunt that failed to be more than a face-deep gesture. She went back to her braiding. Not only was it flatly rude, it was a political offense to deny his attempts to discuss his terms with them.

_Enough._

After a long five hours of visitations, the last thing he wanted was another game. He was tired of games, and games were all that seemed to be coming their way despite the announcement of a fourth holy war. Azrael took his seat, settling into the low-backed chair with a subtle poise and graceful sweep of glorious white wings across the stone floor, steepling his long fingers and fixing the more powerful elements of his eyes onto the figures disrespecting his presence and rank. He let his mental awareness shift to bring the raw sense and purpose of Death to the forefront of his being, letting it wrap him in its shadow and stillness, letting mortal-influenced civility to sink into dormancy and allowing instinctual majesty free reign. Purely in his element, manners were less important, as was discretion when it came to using his magic to influence other minds.

"_Ladies,_" he murmured, and for the gentle quiet of the word, the way in which he twisted the sounds with his voice forced their bodies to still and their eyes to flicker to him, smoothly snatching their will away from their own silly business of wasting his time. When they looked at him, he was a seraph general, not merely an angel with his strength tucked away for safekeeping. He was regal and vivid, wreathed in the shadows cast by burning candles, the faintly sweetened smell of the wax pooling upon the thinly-carved stone plates set beneath the lights to collect the melted refuse. They gave off a subtle warmth, but gentle glow of flame was nothing.

A pulsing violet heat emanated from the angel's aura, dense and smothering, white-hot, near to scorching even to creatures accustomed to the fires of Tartarus. It drew their attention with a command not even the defiant nor foolish could ignore, not while they hoped to remain in one piece. This was not a request. Yet he let them loose fairly quickly, easing the crushing weight of the spiritual energy surging from him in kinetic waves once he'd reminded them of who and what he was, and the things he was capable of. All done without so much as a hint of a direct threat. Ruhin didn't respond well to threats, they tended to titter and shriek and cry and lose all sense of logic, which wasn't necessarily something he wanted to put up with with.

Normally he frowned upon brute displays of power like the one he had just performed. Using his magic to emphasize his strength by clouding the air in the room was very like puffing oneself up in stature in order to force an opponent to back down. The action was common in political scenarios, though methods varied from denizen to denizen. Politics had nothing to do with this particular incident, however, he had just used the quickest (and most efficient, really) way out of a conflict.

"Ladies," he repeated, the clean, fragrant scent of Death still thick upon his breath, "I have tolerated your presence here long enough. By rights for those who you have disrespected, and whose possessions you have manhandled, I should flay the flesh from your backs—"

"You wouldn't..." the smallest Ruhin claimed, half rising from her sister's lap, her tone spiraling to something near panic that the others would certainly echo.

"No," he agreed softly, "I would not. Uriel would. I advise you to be grateful that it was not his law on which you tread." Making a small gesture of peace with his hand, he reached again for the gilded scrolls and added coolly: "now, I want you to return the items you misplaced to their proper homes, after which I would ask you to be on your way." Worded like a request as it was, the meaning behind the message was clear; they would bow to his authority now or pay the consequences that technically should have come earlier. Azrael didn't need to add that if he caught them making their mischief around the Eyrie again he would be far less lenient. It was a promise made crystal clear by the way his pale-tinged eyes lingered still and cold on their faces, one after the other.

Efficiently and forcefully humbled, put firmly in their place by the seraph's hand, they slunk away. But they could feel his watchful presence on them until they were out of earshot. Only then did he let them completely off the leash of his thrall, knowing that grudging respect for the lack of harm he'd done them (and fear of what he _could_ have done) would ensure obedience.

It was far easier to escape weariness and frustration both when his mind was occupied by Death's influence, which caused him to decide against folding it away. Yet it also made it more difficult to focus on matters written upon parchment. After a moment of deliberation he pushed the scrolls he'd painstakingly gathered to one side of the desk, knowing that an attempt to search them for information would be in vain. The deeper parts of his nature were less inclined to turn toward scholarly activities.

He wanted to do something grueling; something that would drain his energy, something taxing to the point of exhaustion so that he might sleep again. He had not known a good night of sleep since that last night in Lilith's apartment.

Simply the thought of her seared him with wanting, veins inflamed with a mixture of pain and regret that he had barely touched her before leaving. Swallowing thickly, he concentrated on banishing the picture of Lilith's smooth, pale shoulders from his mind, a feat that proved nigh impossible for the yearning in his heart.

One hand gripped the left side of his chest to ease the throb of the flesh beneath cloth and skin, thumb brushing the end of the ornate gold-crafted key that hung from a chain around his neck – a trinket that had been with him longer than he could remember – which he'd taken to wearing again since the war had been announced. Keeping it close to him was an assurance of control over himself, at least in some ways. Not enough, apparently, to erase visions of flushed cheeks and smiling eyes, the way her voice took the sounds that made up his name and turned them to poetry. Suddenly the aching for her was intolerable. When Death's passions were made vivid, and when unchecked by lines of propriety shortly since wiped away, they were strong enough to tempt him with temporary desertion.

No fighting was being done. There was no urgent need, no organization endeavor or scouting excursion that required his supervision, no project that couldn't wait. No one would miss him if he left for just a few hours...

A sharp, pungent smell tickled the delicate sensors that lined his nasal passage. Just a brush at first, a light whiff of scent that floated by. Inhaling more deeply, he drew the clean aroma of cedar oil into his lungs, tasting the earthy accompaniments of plant leaf and chalk. And then, an instant later, the sparkling flavor of pure magic, full of life and lilting notes of a silent song.

The grip of the melody kept him from straying, kept him from dropping all responsibility and sense in favor of vanishing to slip past his own spells, through the carpeted halls and into far-off Lilith's bedroom. A compulsion lined the song, one so potent that it cancelled out everything else around and inside him, a vivid thrum that tingled in the air, on his tongue, sank into his core and into his very essence. Inescapable and captivating. He could feel Enoch's strength, the tangy brilliance of her magical voice centering his balance, and Gabriel's steadfast endurance a complimenting harmony. It steadied him, calmed the force of loneliness and need, and reminded him of duty.

The Dead Days had begun.

Despite its name, the alleged ceremonial holiday had nothing to do with him or his element. It was a rough, unfinished sort of name, invoking the lack of normalcy that tinged the six-day span of mortal time it took to regenerate the much-needed barrier spells. Dead days, days that were somehow separate from the rest of the year. Days that existed but didn't quite belong.

Azrael rose from his seat, shrugging so the heavy black silk of his robe slid fluidly to the floor. A mortal and pestle were lifted from one of the desk drawers, a small, convenience-sized set, into which he loaded cedar bark and leaves of bay, mistletoe and vervain. With several strokes of the stone pestle he ground the lot of it into a hearty powder that was poured into an open palm, a fistful of white chalk gripped in the other, delved from a wax-lined sack. Instantly upon being crushed, the herbs perfumed the air with a mixture of freshness and bitter acidity that was cooled by the dry, musty smell of chalk.

On the floor he cleared of chairs with a thought, he walked a moderate circle, once with the potent powder held in a fist pressed to murmuring lips, the second time sprinkling the crushed plants in a trail behind him. The third pass sprinkled the powdery chalk atop the path made by scattered herbs, clouding faintly with puffs of white. Enclosing himself within a ring made purely from ingredients to heighten spiritual awareness, magical strength, and protection, he spoke the final words that would seal the circle, making it impenetrable to outside interference or interruption of any kind. A perfect safeguard.

Inside the circle he sat, situating himself as comfortably as he could and resting relaxed hands in his lap. He lifted his face skyward and closed his eyes, violet gems swimming with sparks of flame that echoed the aura that surged about him like a rising heat, swelling with the rhythm that beat from his heart. The jeweled facets of it were smooth, shining with the magic that poured from his spiritual body and flowed along the chain linking him with every other angel present on the planet.

The center, the point of conduction may have been located in England – the place beloved by mortal curiosity and intrigue named (by those same mortals) Stonehenge – yet Azrael could feel his sister's hands move as they formed seal after guiding seal, shaping his added magic to suit the recipe every angel knew.

From those gifted with small magics to those too great for description, to those with only the magic of their immortal existence guiding them on, they each contributed; tilting their faces heavenward and opening themselves to the clinging layer of spell-song that drank from their souls. The heat of it gathered, danced along between links, between each connected body. Each individual angel's mind felt touched by the others who joined them, even those who descended to the mortal plane specifically to add to the tumult of power singing through the connection of mind, spirit, and stilled body.

For six days they would remain, utterly still, locked in their communal trance until the ritual was concluded. The two conductors serving as conduits, stationed at the Henge, channeled the energy gathered by the angelic host and wove it into a spell that would fortify the barriers between hell and earth. For protection, for resistance and because it was tradition. By the time the conductors – Enoch and Gabriel this time around – gave life to the closing incantations, the barriers would be renewed, and hopefully strong enough to bar smaller, useless demonic pests from treading on their toes as they had of late.

It would go quickly, but until January dawned, Azrael would not open his eyes again.

Christmas came and went in something so near to a flash that Lilith had barely time to buy presents and bake cookies before the week had passed. It had been a quiet holiday, not terribly different from what she was accustomed to, but unlike years past, she'd enjoyed herself immensely.

She had organized a small holiday party for her friends (many of them work-friends), where she had finally offered congratulations to Elijah and met Sarah's boyfriend Mark, who had looked rather green in the face at the initial prospect of being thoroughly nitpicked by his date's girl friends. Strictly speaking, he had a reason to fret; Janelle had gone so far as to corner the poor boy while Sarah was occupied with helping Lilith in the kitchen setting up the potluck buffet, questioning him with an intensity that would make a drill sergeant until Alice had pity on him and dragged her away. Except that Janelle had found no excuse to fault him. With her acceptance (as the most protective of the little circle), they had embraced the new boy quite openly.

Lilith herself had only been able to share a short conversation with Mark, mainly centered on how he and Sarah had met due to her polite inquiry as she dished him a croissant sandwich with turkey, tomato and Swiss cheese. Her prominent memory was of his features gentling and his nervous demeanor lifting, relaxing as he retold the tale that featured Sarah picking her little sister Angela up from soccer practice (he was coach for the school, apparently) and being dragged into Sarah's customary flirting...which had spun to serious. Lilith had seen a man's face gentle that way before and knew what it meant. She also knew that not even the best of actors could imitate it falsely. She had conceded to Mark's relationship with her friend with a graceful ease, for which she was both thankful and cheerful.

If anyone deserved that kind of happiness, it was Sarah.

At the dawn of the 25th, Christmas morning, she had driven to her uncle's house in Albany, luxuriating in the near-empty highways and the crisp, clear morning. There had been no snow, but the forecast had predicted some for that evening, which had sparked a hint of excitement, anticipation for the beauty of it helping to eat up some of the drive.

Daniel's home was located in a quaint suburb neighborhood situated on the southern end of the city, lush with deciduous trees (leafless and bare, but no less beautiful for it), complete with a rounded little walkway that led from driveway to front door. It had faint touches of colonial heritage, as though the builders had been trying to pay homage to the old structures of New Hampshire and Pennsylvania, with lovely white trim about its pale blue outer walls and white shutters. Though the interior had been packed with cardboard boxes (which Daniel had defended with the excuse that the task of unpacking properly took years to complete), the two-bedroom-one-and-a-half-bath house was the epitome of charming. Icing on the cake; standing upon the dining table was a miniature, glass-ball bedecked fir tree.

Of course, she had teased her uncle mercilessly about where he was hiding his wife and secret hoard of children (because why else would he need such a lovely house and so much room?) between small fits of laughter. The jokes he had brushed off, pleading for her help with the ham he'd bought and couldn't figure out how to cook properly. She'd taken pity and gave him a crash-course on the store's honey-glazing and how to bake it.

The evening progressed lazy and slow with a fire in the hearth and hot cider to warm body and soul. The salvaged ham was served with scalloped potatoes and broccoli with melted cheddar cheese, good, crusty bread and creamy butter and made a fine meal, despite Lilith having to fix most of Daniel's mistakes regarding the food's seasoning. Spreading the dishes across the dining table and dishing up there, they set their plates on the counter to eat, sharing a bottle of sparkling cider and played chess. Lilith lost, and spectacularly at that, five times before her uncle decided to teach her in the arts of strategy. There wasn't much improvement right away, but he assured her that she would learn with practice.

After piling their dishes in the kitchen and washing up with a randomly mixed assortment of carols playing in the background (to which they performed a duet for the drying plates and cutlery), they retreated to the living room, curling on the floor by the fire. She shared a tin filled with butter cookies, sugarplums, truffles and fruitcake; and they talked. They talked about Daniel's volunteer work with the fire station down the street, about Lilith's work at the library, Alice's upcoming marriage, the reunion that was coming up for Daniel's regiment and all kinds of other things.

Not once, however, did the subject of quote-on-quote _Adrian_ come up. Not one word was mentioned. She had been missing him all the more those past few days, and it seemed that Daniel understood, as best he could under the circumstances, and had decided to leave the matter alone, preferring to let conversation linger on better, more pleasant things. For this she was extremely grateful.

When she had been forced to depart for fear of risking falling asleep at the wheel on the drive back, he'd sent her home with a warm, solid hug and a kiss on the forehead. He had been solid and peaceful, holding her against his chest for a long moment during which she rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. Though far from Azrael's protection, in a tiny moment of sadness, she took a certain comfort from the touch. Softly, gently, he told her: "you've grown up, sweetheart. I'm _so_ proud of you." It had confirmed her suspicions that blood was not what truly made a father.

She drove home with a smile on her lips, the words of Julie Andrews' version of Wexford Carol flavored like cinnamon-sugar on her tongue. Yet the tastes of spice wouldn't last forever.

Five o'clock in the morning on the 26th, the very next day, she woke up in a cold sweat and a mouth full of bile.

It was immediately clear to Lilith that she was going to throw up; she knew instantly, recognizing the unsettling sloshing going on inside her stomach. It was a nasty curdling sensation that made her feel woozy and unsettled. The swooping symptom of sickness forced her out of bed, gagging on vomit, hand clapping to her mouth and feet fleeing for the bathroom with a flailing gale of sheets and pillows left behind. With the help of an already open door, she made it to the toilet just in the nick of time.

Emptying what little remained of her stomach's contents into the toilet, she retched, squeezing her eyes tightly shut against the pain seizing at her ribs and the bitter, foully sour taste of sick coating her mouth. Yet, fortunately enough, the spell lasted only a few disgusting moments, after which she lingered with her head hung over the toilet bowl until she was positive there was no more to reject. She sniffled, spat once, wiped her chin with a hand towel and relinquished the steely grip upon the porcelain to rinse her mouth with cold water, feeling a little unnerved by the sudden there-and-gone violence of it.

Normally, throwing up would have given her only minor cause to worry. She knew what flu symptoms were like, having experienced them first-hand, and knew that a cold was nothing to be afraid of. It was just...she had been under the impression that she was immune to sickness, being half-immortal and all. Too rough and too violent for her to imagine a possible cause, she tried to think of what could have prompted a sickness like this; food poisoning, overeating, seeing anything nasty enough to trigger that reaction were all possible candidates. But nothing really fit. Unless there had _really_ been some damage done to that ham last night...

No matter.

Strange as it was, she saw no reason to fuss over it, deciding it was most likely a cold trying to worm its way into something bigger, that she had been misinformed. It was a minor detail left unchecked, no big deal. After all, hybrids weren't made every other day; there was considerable reason for a mistake to have been made regarding the extent of her immortalized health-range. She would combat it by drinking lots of juice instead of coffee, which she'd found to battle the flu most adequately in the past, and happened to have in stock in a can – just add water and stir – in the freezer drawer.

Gathering herself up, Lilith pushed back the pinching ache in her back and the roughness of a dry, scratched throat only somewhat soothed by the splashes of cold water. She straightened and looked at her reflection, gazing tiredly at the faint shadows under her green eyes, and knew that there was no way she was going to get any more sleep. She was up. With a sigh, annoyed that she'd been so rudely awaked by a cold (and just after Christmas, too!), she padded back into the bedroom. Glass of water in hand, she nudged chilly feet into slippers and shrugged a long, thick grey sweater with large black buttons on over her nightdress.

Exiting the bedroom, she headed to the living room where Cerberus was sleeping, stretched out on the couch. Though she cast a longing look toward the kitchen and the prospect of food, she knew better than to eat just yet. Tap water would have to suffice for the moment. The dog adjusted, having sensed her presence, and made room for her as he sat up and gave a yawn of near-epic proportions, ears pricking back and then forth with the motion. Blinking somewhat sleepily at her, he leaned forward to nuzzle her chin, giving her a soft lick with a mannered tongue.

She hugged him around the shoulders, smoothing her face against his ruff and exchanging some love to the creature that hadn't left her side since being charged with her protection as ordered by his master...her guardian, her lover.

Her insides lurched. Yet this time it was not her stomach that rebelled, but something else. While the physical heart had no notion of feelings besides the systematic pumping of blood throughout the body, there was no denying that something inside her chest reacted to the thought of Azrael just then.

The ache in that imaginary place, tucked away as it had been, was growing and she knew it. Every day that passed left her feeling more and more anxious, one more minute attached to the short vigil unknowingly undertaken each night as she stared out her bedroom window and wished with all her being that he would appear, not even caring that such an arrival would undoubtedly signal that inevitable return to hell to restore her energy. She wondered fleetingly now and again whether it was the hybrid-weakness that caused her to pine so miserably, after all she hadn't been this way when he'd been _courting_ her.

But then again, she hadn't known she was in love with him at the time.

She missed him so – sometimes it felt like there was a tiny hole in her somewhere too deep, buried under too much flesh and bone to be found and filled. And even if it weren't, what could she possibly fill it with? Memories were thin, filmy, insubstantial substitutions for what she really needed. No amount of her recollections of Azrael's face, his voice, his sweet smile, the way his eyes turned that beautiful blue-violet when he looked at her; not even if she drowned herself in it, memory was not enough to fill that nagging little hole. Thus, she tried not to think about it.

But it was difficult to block out, especially those moment she caught herself touching her own shoulder or cheek, brushing fingertips against her own mouth and not knowing when she would feel his hand, feel his kiss, there again. _When would she?_

Tearing herself away from the darker loneliness of her thoughts, she glanced over her shoulder out the window and saw that it was snowing. Flakes of white drifted down from the monotone, slate-gray sky, like pieces of cloud shaken from the heavens and sent to dust the face of the earth. But it didn't make her happy. She loved the snow for its own sake, but she simply couldn't bring herself to be happy today. Nor would she tomorrow, or the next day. Or the next.

The six days that stretched between Christmas and New Years were the worst days of the year for Lilith. She never planned any outings or accepted any invitations, she would go to work if she was scheduled to and go home straight after. There she would stay until the new year rolled around, doing very little besides haunting her own apartment like a phantom in human guise. A kind of hush surrounded the world during that time, a kind of hush that was more than just the let-down of one holiday ending and another starting its approach. The very air seemed to still, to draw close and heavy as dusty old drapes, blanketing the planet in a cocoon of something she didn't have the words to describe. Like an itch, it ruffled her, made the hair at the back of her neck stand up.

For as long as she could remember the gap of time had unnerved her, as though the six days of silence was a book put in the wrong place. As if they didn't actually belong in the span of the year. Whatever it was, it leeched the sound and color from everything around her.

Grayness seeped through the window, chilling her right to the bone, and she quickly scrambled to her feet in search of something to do...something to distract her from the uneasy feeling crawling along her skin, light as spider legs and faint as a feather. She fell upon her basket of crochet projects as though it was her saving grace, delving with shivery hands into the skeins of yarn and packets of needles. A new blanket? She could make one; it would take a long time. Possibly long enough to take up the time until the 31st.

Skein after skein she pulled from the three-by-three foot circular basket, pinks and greens and creams, and then her hand met something far softer than her usual Lion Brand yarn. Silky and slippery-soft, the scarf she extracted from beneath the wad of an abandoned placemat project was long, thin, and elegant with its striped pattern of close and looser stitches, finely fringed at either end. And it was the rich color of a ripe plum. The color of royalty, regality, and an angel's eyes.

_I shall wash thee white as snow._

Before she'd even realized what she was doing, she had a green and white striped gift bag in one hand and was folding the scarf gently to be tucked inside and shielded by a white, crinkling froth of white tissue-paper. She had no tags, nothing truly festive, but she managed to scrounge up a piece of red construction paper on which she wrote with a silver ink-pen:

** To: Azrael  
From: Lilith**

Though she was far from positive as to whether or not Christmas was a holiday for the denizens of heaven, she was also far from caring. Even before she had laid down money for the yarn, some miniscule piece of her had known it was meant to be his. She set the gift at the very center of the coffee table, where she could look at it and smile, anticipating when she could give it to him; see the color meld with the pale, flaxen gold of his hair and the beautiful blue-violet of his eyes.

That done, she shifted, suddenly aware of the prickling that was the brushing contact she didn't know was magic, and hurriedly began chaining a long row of stitches in a pale green yarn, turning on the television to whatever channel appeared to tune out the heavy silence of it. Stitching prevailed, silent and uneasy, driven by shaking hands until she had to rush for the bathroom a second time, coughing up the water she had only just swallowed, heaving until she dry-retched. Once her argumentative stomach settled for another few moments, she returned to her project, patting her sentinel absently on the head, and resumed her idle pursuit of making the day go by as fast as she possibly could.

All the while, Cerberus watched her with penetrating blue eyes. Puzzlement and concern weighted him, perceptive to the way the half-mortal he guarded spent the next five days in a crocheting frenzy, stopping only to drink and eat light, flu-worthy foods like toast and applesauce. And to the way she threw up twice more during that span, both times as violently and suddenly as she had before.

He had to send a message, but sending it now would do no good. As soon as his master's soul was back inside its body, he would send word. Azrael needed to know.

Dense, thick layers of magic parted from his consciousness like heavy brocade and velvet drapes being drawn back to unveil a window. Heavy at first, every layer that peeled away was thinner and finer than the last until they were sloughing like a film, flaking from the spirit held in repose, chipping away like tiny crystals of ice being shed from a prisoner beneath its glassy surface. It was rather like waking from a long sleep that had been full of transparent dreams. The world left behind in the spiritual parallel of Wiltshire, England had been real enough, but to those steeped in the pulse of magical thrall, things such as time and solid being were sometimes misplaced.

White lids parted from Azrael's violet eyes, black lashes resting like fringed lace against the pale skin below fair white-blond brows. Slowly, very slowly, he shed the remnants of the spells that had linked him to his brethren and locked his mind in the communal trance of the binding spell ritual, painstakingly removing each and every shred of magic that coated him like layers of dust might collect on a vase left sitting untouched for far too long. His senses felt dulled, made mildly unresponsive due to disuse. That tended to happen when one left a human shell emptied of spirit for more than a few hours. He stayed within the ring of his protective circle, though the chalk had turned to a brittle gray-green since he had cast it, and routinely stretched each individual muscle group to reawaken the body long kept in stillness.

Yet just as he was about to stand and drop the shields around him, there came a tingling of awareness that brushed the back of his mind like the whisper of a bell's chime. Tilting his head, he listened again; focusing on the signature behind what he already knew was a summons. He had only been gone for six days, and all the rest of heaven's host was awakening from the ritual just as he was. What could possibly need his attention right this minute?

Had he not recognized the signature, he never would have answered it. Wearied as he was from the exertions of so much magic being extracted and channeled through him, he was slightly more vulnerable to harm. There was no way he would have risked answering an anonymous call and ascending to the spiritual plane. Harm done there would be great, and he could not afford to run up his tab of lost lives so early in the game, especially not for the sake of something that could end up being a trap. But he did recognize it. And because he was certain any news from this particular party was news he wanted to hear, he resettled into a meditative stance and closed his eyes.

This time (though the transition was slower due to his slight weariness) instead of holding his spirit somewhere between consciousnesses he shucked his body and the physical plane, lifting his soul's potency and being from the earthly shell to enter _A'anwyn._

A direct translation didn't exist in any human-made language, but the word was one that encompassed all things of the spirit, its power and its own, separate reality. Yet unlike the magical parallels blanketing the earth – accessible to none but the immortal – to enter the world of _A'anwyn, _all one needed was a waking spirit. Mortals often entered in their sleep, though it served them more as a window through which to see into the parts of the subconscious soul tucked away and hidden by the day-to-day conscious. Dreams were of _A'anwyn. _For an immortal soul, to enter was a way to make face-to-face contact when the use of crystals or voice was too at risk of being overheard or intercepted. Rather like the concept of astral projection…to make it easier for a mortal mind to comprehend.

As the Underworld's passage from life to afterlife was a cold, misty river, _A'anwyn _had the look and feel of a quiet forest. The entire plane had a bluish tinge to it, as though that were the only shade the world was capable of reproducing. Anything that was not black with shadow had a faint blue coloring. There was no season, or perhaps it was that all four seasons took place all at once, for some trees were flowering, some empty and barren, and some were dropping leaves like a light sprinkling of petals upon a carpet of nothing but empty ground. Some might have said it was twilight, others a mid-morning. To Azrael, the lighting was such that the time appeared to be just after noon-time…though it changed with every visit.

He stood, or, his soul form stood, underneath the shadow of a single, ancient beech tree, canopied by its spread of leaves. Eyes held wide and watchful, he circled the trunk, searching for the summoner. Even despite a fair amount of certainty that he knew who to expect, he kept his back to the wood and his consciousness close to the barrier between this reality and the physical one; prepared to hurl himself back into his body should this whole situation prove to be a trap after all.

Caution was never needless, yet in this case it was unnecessary. From behind a cluster of maple and alder stepped a lean, long-limbed figure; a male, white of skin and dark of hair, garbed simply in a pair of black slacks. The belt that circled his hips was of leather, dyed a deep, rich blue and buckled with an ornately designed Roman numeral formed of silver. It caught the pale bluish light, shimmering with almost the same sheen that dusted his white skin in light, near-translucent silvery swirls, stark against the raven black of his sleek, just short of shaggily-cut hair.

Azrael knew no fear for the long-bladed, slightly curved hunting knife strapped to the man's thigh. The pale crystal color of the figure's aura (something that remained untouched by _A'anwyn's _natural lighting) and eyes combined with the sign of his own numeral shining at the man's belt, told him exactly who it was sinking to a crouch several yards away.

"Is she all right?" the angel questioned, wasting no time on pleasantries with the aide who had never made a frivolous summons in his life.

Cerberus ducked his head briefly in assent, dark bangs flopping over his eyes. It might have looked childish but for the lethal prowess of the clawed hand that pushed the hair back. "She's unharmed. No outward threat has been made to her or to her surroundings."

Some of the tension leaked from Azrael's shoulders. "Why, then, have you summoned me?"

"I thought it relevant to report repeated episodes of nausea and a week-long period of what appears to be heightened psycho-emotional stress." Cerberus paused, tilting his head slightly to the side as he added, "such things are unusual for hybrid-immortals, yes?"

"Nausea…?" A place inside his heart seemed to glaze with an icy, strangled kind of fear. "As in illness? And paranoia?"

The dark head nodded twice. "Vomiting. Rather violently as far as I could determine. At least four episodes that I am aware of." In quick response to the streak of alarm that flashed across Azrael's face, he added, "It wasn't tied to any poison or exposure to a spell…I believe it was something else, but I don't know what."

Azrael swore – the sounds and tastes of the curses vivid and flavorful – and swiped a hand through his hair. This what not what he'd expected to hear, not even with a direct summons to warn him. Though he had requested frequent reports, hearing this, in truth, scared him. The threat of impending war he could face, all it took to deal with that was a strong will and a good amount of tenacity. He had given her immortality – she was immune to sickness, immune to earthly plague and pestilence. Something else was affecting her, and this wasn't something he liked. He could not face the possibility that Lilith might be reacting to what sounded suspiciously like a blood-magic spell designed to leech the life from a human body, potent enough to affect a hybrid, and strong enough to be masked from Cerberus' detection.

There was no option. He needed to take a span of leave, regardless of whatever poison Michael might spit at him for it later. There was no way he would let his ward die if he could stop it…which he probably could, after all, he was hardly a novice when it came to stripping and breaking curses.

"Very well." He pressed his fingertips to his temples, trying to quell the quiet thrum of a mental warning coming from his body, telling him that he needed rest. Strain and exhaustion was catching up fast. Sleep and its oblivion were calling. "I need a few days to get my chakra in order. In the meantime, see if you can trace this any further. Try to keep her hydrated and calm if you can…I will be there shortly."

With a nod, Cerberus, face expressionless and eyes worried, dissipated, his spirit returning to the wolfish body he'd left behind.

Azrael followed shortly, letting himself slip back into the physical world with the aid of a directed spark of chakra energy to the nerve-point set at the base of his neck, since weariness made it more difficult to travel between planes. Sinking back into his body, he barely had the time to lift his shield spells and drag himself to the camp-bed someone had set up in a corner while he had been away before he passed out, collapsing into the breathless, dreamless slumber of the immortals.

…and fear curdling in his heart.

* * *

**Yay, update! **

**...actually, I don't have much to say about this chapter right now...I'm kinda tired tonight. And hungry. I think I'm getting allergic to my mom's cooking or something. But seriously...what's with all this sickness/paranoia stuffs? :D**

**ANYWHO! I'm going to eat up this space with a great big THANK YOU SO MUCH to those of you who reviewed. You don't know how much I love you for it, each one of you, every time I read something from you guys/girls, it makes my day. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. **

**And...because I need to get away from this lap top and drag my boy away from his game and get smooches...I shall depart. **

**Until next time, my lovelies!**


	5. I Bring You a Song

**Chapter 5: I Bring You a Song**

Recommended Listening: "Following Tzipporah" by Hans Zimmer [from The Prince of Egypt],  
"The Wolf" by Tyler Bates [from 300] and "Inevitable" by Anberlin

* * *

After a hard day at work, there's nothing more a person wants to do than go home and take a hot bubble bath to soothe away the aches and pains – and maybe slurp a good strong drink of hard liquor – and think about absolutely nothing work related for the remainder of the evening. Aside from the alcohol, that sounded like a pretty good plan to her.

The library had been hectic, most especially that afternoon; full of faulty, irritable machinery, nonstop ringing of the backroom telephones and patrons with issues that had the LAs running like freshly-decapitated chickens to keep up with it all. Not to mention three people out sick with the most recent flu virus and no substitutes to be found. She had gone from Page-duties to Assistant-duties at the drop of a pin, scrambling to keep up with the top-heavy flow of book-drop, shipment, phones, and sending for assistance when one computer simply refused to function any longer.

It turned out that their shipping center had been going through a series of mechanical problems which, after holding back days worth of shipment, had dumped on them royally once fixed. The end of her shift was a welcomed relief, but it wasn't the end of the day's duties.

The ride to the bridal shop was less than thrilling, too, heavy with traffic that seemed unusually sticky even for seven o'clock in mid January. She sat slumped in her little Toyota, heat blasting like a pillow of warm pressed to her face, and fiddled with the radio to find a station that was playing music instead of D.J. monologues, growing more and more irritated as the minutes ticked by and her tires moved not an inch closer homeward. Normally not prone to road-rage, she found herself fuming by the time she finally pulled into one of the mall's allotted parking spaces and stomped up the steps leading into the J.C. Penny's outlet.

As it was a Friday night, the mall was crowded and stifling, cramped with teenagers searching for a place to hang out and housewives and mothers cramming some quick shopping into their busy schedules. Lilith, her mood foul enough as it was, avoided the clusters of people and dodged through the wide, bench-dotted isle ways with all the enthusiasm of a trout swimming the wrong way upstream. She didn't like crowds any more than she liked being yelled at, which was a low amount to be sure. And she really didn't appreciate the gangly pack of fifteen-year-old boys giving her bedroom eyes from behind the massive potted plant across the way. Once she spotted the shop she's promised to meet her girls ten minutes ago, she breathed a sigh of mingled relief and frustration and dove inside.

It didn't take long to find Alice, who was perched atop the fitting platform facing a trio of angled mirrors. She was absolutely radiant in the white gown, just as perfect as the picture in the magazine, and ten times prettier because the model wasn't some cookie-cutter, raccoon-eyed waif she Lilith didn't know. Smiling a little bashfully, Alice was coiling a lock of her hair around her finger as she followed the seamstress as the suit-skirted woman in four-inch heels picked at places that would need adjusting, an obvious distraction to keep herself from touching the fresh, snow-colored garment that draped her like pearl icing shaped into a gathered, bubble hem. Lilith padded up and laid her chin on Janelle's shoulder to watch, unable to keep herself from smiling.

"Hey, you," Janelle greeted softly, petting the brunette's head with a palm that said her happiness was no secret to hide. "Everything ok?"

"Yeah, traffic was just awful," Lilith replied, giving Sarah's extended hand a squeeze of hello.

Alice turned, a swishing dream in taffeta, and held out her arms for an opinion from her friends. The three girls needed no further time to consider; the dress was perfection. Sarah, as silently elected spokeswoman, gave a two-thumbs up and deigned it "like an angel's envy." Which made Lilith have to disguise her gasping jolt of laughter as a cough.

"We'll have to make sure you have a good set of bridal lingerie to go under there," Sarah teased, and only partly meaning the joke, "wouldn't want to disappoint with a lame dessert after such an epic main course!" The girls giggled and blushed, with Alice's cheeks the pinkest of all, a shade that would have put a rose to shame. Surrendering herself to the knowing expertise of the seamstress who would be making her adjustments, Alice turned back to the mirror to get her fitting underway while her three bridesmaids went to the counter to ask for their dresses.

Fortune had struck the bridal party, as Alice's mother Anne (her Matron of Honor, as well) had discovered when calling ahead to order the four gowns, the two styles requested had been new last season. This meant that the price tags had been cut almost in half, lowering the amounts by nearly a hundred dollars. Since none of the four girls were exactly well-to-do, the surprise had been good news, and made them much more cheerful as the shop assistant dragged three long white-plastic garment bags out from the back room and, after checking tags and calling sizes, handed each to its rightful wearer. With Janelle and Sarah's squeals leading the way, Lilith trooped off behind to the dressing room and claimed a stall to try on her dress, unable to quash even the tiniest spark of excitement clamoring about in her chest.

Lilith had never owned a formal dress. She hadn't gone to homecoming or to prom, since lacking both a date and the available funds to pay for either a dress or the tickets to attend, she had put the matters out of mind, preferring to pretend the whole thing didn't exist than admit that she was disappointed. It wasn't just that she had been upset about not going to a dance with the boy she liked (considering there hadn't been one) in a fancy dress and pretty shoes. It was the fun, the chance to spend a special night with her friends and to forget about all the bad things at home that she felt she'd missed. And it was an opportunity she never expected to come again. But those days had passed, and here she was about to try on a beautiful gown for her friend's wedding.

Who'd have ever guessed?

The garment bag unzipped with a low, grating noise of cheap plastic on plastic until it came apart and was tucked onto the bench at the back of the tiny stall. What was left behind, clipped to the hanger, was a beautiful mermaid-styled gown of a blue so clear and pure that it was beyond any name Lilith could think of. It was sleeveless, which meant she would need to acquire a strapless bra, and a gathered, curved neckline held between the breasts by a faux rhombus-cut diamond. Pulling the sleek, shiny satin over her hips and zipping it carefully up the back, she felt like a princess in some classic movie.

Turning, she marveled at the way the fishtail hem spread from about her knees in an arcing ripple of color. The mirror was floor-length, giving her a good view of her reflection and the smooth comparison between the cream color of her skin and the vivid crystal-sky blue. It suited her complexion, and made her hair seem slightly darker in shade, but her eyes, frankly, did not match...which was to be expected. Besides, Sarah, she knew, would know around a hundred and one tricks with eyeshadow to make them seem bluer instead of green. With one last caress of her hands down her sides and hips, smiling at the gently ripple of the light playing on the fabric, she unlocked her door to step outside and partake in the council of the bridesmaids.

Sarah was just stepping out of her own stall, the train of her hem in one hand, which she let fall to the floor as she cleared the door and caught sight of Lilith, shooting the other girl a beaming smile which was an obvious sign of approval. The redhead was a brilliant flash of color, yet, surprisingly, her hair didn't clash with the blue of the dress, it seemed more of an auburn, darkened and flame-toned, and her eyes seemed to hold a golden kind of glow. "What do you think?" Sarah asked, twirling once for her audience just in time to biff Janelle around the ankles with flying skirt as she exited another stall.

"Jeez," the blond teased as Sarah grabbed her by the arm and squeaked an apology. "Well, girls," she began, assessing her two fellow bridesmaids with a pink-cherry smile, "let's head to the mirrors!"

"Yeah!" Sarah echoed, shuffle-trotting under her too-long hem toward the outer area of the shop and the waiting seamstresses who would be taking care of their adjustments.

Lilith followed along in their wake, tugging absently at the bust of her dress, which was slightly too voluminous for her needs, and stepped up onto one of the three platforms to await her turn. She peered around for Alice, and spotted the dark-haired girl at the counter paying for her dress, which was hanging on one of the racks to be worked on over the next two weeks. The petite beauty looked flushed and happy and excited for her big day to come, and Lilith couldn't fault her, for she had good feelings about the marriage that would bind her friend to building contractor Elijah Watts.

A pair of hands pinching and pulling at the fabric circling her chest snapped her attention to the seamstress whose tone was musing and businesslike as she said, "well, this could use some fixing, couldn't it?" and went into a strangely rehearsed sounding monologue about how nice it was to still see pretty girls with small chests nowadays.

Lilith did her best to contain her semi-mortified laughter.

An hour and a half later, once the fittings had been concluded, contact numbers were taken, and after a quick snack coffee and croissants; Lilith was trudging up the four flights of stairs to her humble apartment with the promise of a dress to be picked up some time within the next few days floating around in her brain. Yawning, she dug her keys from her blue-gray and black plaid everyday bag and set to work on her door. Activity had made the day go fast, but to an end that found her physically and mentally wearied.

Scratch that..._exhausted._

Dumping her things on the door-side table and shucking her shoes, she dragged her feet all the way to the kitchen, stripping from winter clothing as she went. The venture for a glass of water began with a soft utterance of greeting for Cerberus as he trotted around the counter's corner edge to twine, catlike and careful, about her legs. His tails dragged along behind, trailing like nine furred feather-boas across the linoleum. She rubbed his ears, soothing herself as much as she said hello to her four-legged roommate, and unbuttoned her collar to loosen the woolen scarf wound tight about her neck.

She felt oddly overheated, as though humidity was pressing at her from all sides like it would in the heart of summer, even though the weather outside was bitterly cold and sharp. It felt as though the artificial engine heat that she'd filled her car with had followed her inside, clouding about her body like a clinging sort of shadow. The sort of clinging, stickiness that was unpleasant to say the least. The liquid she poured from refrigerated pitcher to clean glass wasn't nearly as cold as she's hoped for, either. Yet she drank it all the same. She had been a dancer long enough to know that thirst was a warning sign that the body was becoming dehydrated, wanting for moisture. It slipped down her throat, swallow after swallow, until no more remained. Still thirsty, she filled it again.

Glass in hand, Lilith convinced her tired body to travel from kitchen to bedroom in search of comfier clothes. As soon as she stepped into the room, however, and caught sight of the bathroom door propped slightly open, the desire for a hot bath nearly overwhelmed her nervous system into seizing.

A _hot_ bath. Never mind that just a minute ago she'd wanted to complain about warmth to no one in particular...

Shooing Cerberus from the conjoined rooms with a gentle series of shoves with her shin, which he obeyed with a good natured yip, she undressed and turned the dial to start filling the tub with hot water, adding a dash of bubblebath under the jet for good measure. She had been wary of allowing the dog to watch her in states of undress since discovering his talent for becoming invisible. Perhaps it was silly, but she got the distinct impression that the canine's mentality was not exactly that of a normal dog's. That being said, there was something entirely too humanlike looking out of his eyes, which made her feel uncomfortable baring her skin in front of him. What could she say, she was still mildly paranoid by nature.

She had also learned that nothing was ever quite what it seemed to be even in the mortal realm. Which was a bit of information she still wasn't certain how to handle most days.

Folding her discarded clothes and setting the pile on the counter, she wrestled the tie from her bound hair to let the waves of brown (severely kinked from being in a knot all day long) fall at level with her shoulder blades. She ran a brush through the tangles, wincing when one particularly stubborn spot battled fiercely to stay knotted in a wad. Then, with a sigh, she crossed to the nearly-filled tub and stepped in.

The sensation of lusciously hot, bubble-crested water laving against her tired body was like drowning in a heaven of luxury, even despite the attempt her brain made to unsuccessfully define heaven and how it didn't necessarily mean luxury. This little internal debate was quickly squashed by her cranky subconscious telling it to kindly shut up and go away so she could enjoy her bath. It was surprisingly easy. She simply gave it all over to the warmness that seeped into her skin and melded smoothly with her blood. Snaking along her veins and soothing her nerves as it went, the steaming heat steadily fogging up her mirror ate away at the miniscule aches at her back and the nape of her neck, strained at work doing something hurried or some such nonsense.

So relaxed was she that she actually began to drift off. Her eyelids – closed to better relish the bath – grew heavy, her head drooping to the side to rest against the porcelain edge of the tub, not caring how uncomfortable it would be if she stayed too long. Sleep stole into her consciousness like a thief in the night, capturing her senses to the command of the vision-filled dreams that followed in its wake.

_"Take a lamb..."_

The footsteps were quiet, smothered by sand that packed the earth beneath the sandaled toes. It was a rocky path to tread, winding and bending and sloping with the uneasy cut to the land and lined with the malice of slavery. Rough homes build of mud and spindly sticks crammed the slaves' quarter, peppered with dried reed-crafted doors and cloth-draped windows to dissuade the insects crawling amongst the human filth and decaying bodies of dead frogs. It wasn't a pretty sight, even when dyed brilliant blood-orange by a glorious sunset.

Frightened and distrusting Hebrew eyes stared out from the cracks between windows and doors, thin, underfed and unwashed bodies clustered together in the coming dusk, awaiting the fist of their God's promised judgment.

They were a proud people, despite generations of life serving as whipping boys and servant girls. Fear they had, yes, deep inside their bones. But they still felt some of the hope that had been assured them by Moses' rallying speeches called across the land for all to hear. His words had rolled to the delta, down to the valleys where the Pharaoh and his nobles and priests all fumed at the stench of decay and swatted at locust. Four times he had asked for their freedom. Four times it had been denied, and after nine doses of pestilence and disaster hurled and spent, Moses had appealed to God for a plague that would teach Egypt its wrong for keeping his people as slaves, performing labors for the pay of starvation and abuse.

God's answer had come on swift, if reluctant, wings.

From the male figure wrapped in soft white cloth there emanated a quiet glow, a touch of pearlescence that shimmered against hair the yellow of an early-morning sun and skin the color of milk. He had an odd look to him, the fine-boned, thin-faced look of the vagrants that wandered through from the east. They had learned to be wary of such strangers, yet this one raised neither a hand nor a word to anyone, merely passed through the winding, refuse-strewn pathways through their village built from ill-treatment and abuse with a fluid grace akin to a that of a ghost. They observed, in silence, the creature observing them with eyes blackened by the shadows that masked them. This was no man. This was God's justice.

_"...and with its blood, mark the lintel and posts of every door..."_

Dark, jeweled eyes lined with sparks of silver scanned the doorway to the left, and the dark crimson stain that dripped atop and beside it like twin slashes through the flesh of an animal. Pale fingertips brushed the streak of lifeblood marking a Hebrew lintel, the home of someone who had heeded his warning as interpreted by Moses, and felt as though a tiny blade had been pulled from the pincushion this assignment had made of his heart.

Bloodied fingers were wiped clean upon the white of his tunic, an absentminded brush of a reaction claimed by the tidy by nature, yet no stain remained. A boy, the eldest of his three brothers and two sisters, saw the minute miracle. It inflamed his curiosity and youthful awe, caused him to ignore his mother's shriek of alarm and dash out from the safety of their blood-marked home, scrambling into the street. Small dirty feet kicked up a gray cloud of dust, small stones sent skipping along the parched ground, dryer than a bone.

The stranger paused as the boy came to a halt, blocking his path, and glanced down at the young face that tilted upward to look at him. Unmoving against the backdrop of his mother's muffled cries, the boy stood as tall as he was able, unafraid, and pointed determinedly to the patch of cloth that should – by all of nature's laws – have been red.

_"For tonight I shall pass through the land of Egypt and smite all the firstborn."_

A tiny smile curved the stranger's mouth, soft, gentled as a stone turned to water. Though no words were spoken by the voice which (in this form) might have done the child harm, by way of answer the white-skinned creature held out an empty hand, around which there seemed to swirl a small puff of white mist. In a ripple of magic and mystery, a ripe red pomegranate appeared as clear as the sun was setting beyond the Nile. Settled in the curve of the man's palm.

There was a silence that stretched even deeper than it had under unknowing suspicion. The terrified mother's cries vanished with a choked gasp and the onlookers crowded as close as they dared to the sandy street, straining to catch a glimpse of the fruit conjured from nothing. Not even Pharaoh's most exalted priests and powerful magicians could conjure without all manner of magical equipment or nasty-smelling potions, at the very least they would have had to cover the hand into which the fruit had been meant to appear so as to properly go about whatever ritual was to be fulfilled. This stranger had needed none of that.

What was more, even without the direct influence of the lamb's-blood mark to protect him, the boy had not been hurt. Though there was little question that this man with sun-colored hair was the embodiment of God's wrath, who had promised no quarter for those who wandered outside of the reach of the requested mark, he had raised no hand to slay the little boy whose curiosity had driven him to question what his eyes had seen. Perhaps this the reach of God's mercy as well?

Delighted, the boy reached out with a single finger to touch the fruit, mistaking the pomegranate for an illusion of light or trickery, And quickly snatched it back again when he felt the smooth, waxy rind under his skin. Yet the stranger held it out anew, coaxing the child with steady smile and unthreatening gestures to take the gift he offered. When the fruit passed hands, from the larger, longer-boned white to the small, delicate dark, there were three more settling into the boy's arms. Surprised, with a shout, he had to clutch at them to prevent the red fruit from falling to the ground. He grinned up at the stranger, laughing as the man's hand descended on his head to playfully ruffle his dark, ratty hair, and scampered back to the house from which he'd come, rushing to share the gifts with family and neighbors.

_"But when I see the blood upon your door, I will pass over you..."_

The stranger's gaze lifted to those of the mother whose face, though heavily shadowed, stood out, stark against the muddied cloth of the window-cover, her eyes startled by the show of kindness. Angling his head to her in the form of a miniscule bow, he took another step and began his walk again.

In truth, he had no business there, no real reason to walk among the people he already knew would have no cause to feel the crushing force of his curse. It was Egypt he was to strike, not the Hebrew. Yet he walked there just the same, filling his eyes and heart with the cause and strength he would need to carry out his task. The systematic slaughter of children, no matter whose they were – sons of slaves, of slave-owners or otherwise – was not something easily stomached.

Not even by Death himself.

He walked on until the muscles in his calves flexed to suit the descending slope of a hill and his feet measured the change in quality of the road. Looking out over the city of alabaster and gold, bathed an orangey red too gruesome to be anything but real, he stretched his wings from safekeeping and let his consciousness slide into the cold, calculated stoicism that was Death and descended like a phantom on the city.

_"... and the plague will not enter."_

The dream changed, swam with color and the fruitful sound of music. Her mind echoed with the trilling of a violin, one whose melody was made with the aching sweetness of aged wood and the rich, contrasting perfumes of spice and flowers. Yet the images that fought for clarity amid the chaos of light and shapes milling about in front of her dream-made camera lens were blurry, refusing to come into focus.

Faces sharpened, then faded back into the blur. A slender, raven-haired woman with large, amber-brown eyes swathed in a dress of white and frosted pink; her smile light and distinctly pleased, the kind of smile the belonged on the lips of the besotted. There was something in that smile that was too open, anxious, wanting, desperate. A tall, lanky young man, hair and eyes as distinctive as his sister's, yet in the place of her smile he wore a look that was both bemusement and disdain. A passerby, one who flicked a coin at the stones beneath the player's feet and rewarded with a blurry golden nod.

The woman stepped forward, ignoring the noise of disapproval from her brother, and laid a coin of her own at the base of the fountain upon which the player perched. "For a song?" she inquired, her voice soft, eyes sliding shyly from the handsome player's face when he smiled at her.

"What would you like, milday?" was his reply, sparing not a glance for the money she had offered.

"A love song."

The player took the girl's empty hand and folded her fingers over the coin magically conjured from the place she had left it. "I have no need of your money. Keep it: I sing for the pleasure of it, not for its worth. I have just the song...one befitting such a wondrous beauty." A soft, mannered kiss was touched to the girl's knuckles, a brush of his lips to her skin that was somehow more than a simple gesture considered polite by decent society. And judging from the blush that flowered in the girl's cheeks, she had discerned just the same.

"Rebecca..." She took a step back, back to the brother who eyed her with a mild annoyance, and smiled at the player who took up his bow to play for her. All for her. It was greed in her smile now. Pure, black-lined avarice. Enough to make the heart ache for the man who even fell for her. Or who already had. Because it was very clear that this woman had no love in her heart, merely the lust for the prize she saw, would pursue, and would ultimately do her very best to destroy.

_"Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme._"

Again the dream changed, settling Lilith in the blue and cream square that was her bathroom. It was a very real image, unlike the blurred, unfinished one featuring the violinist without a face or the roughened, picturesque Egyptian desert. It was lifelike; down to the bubbles floating, thick like meringue, and popping softly against her skin, down to the smell of soap and apple and warm musk. A scent that she found so familiar that it hurt to decode. The smell of Azrael's skin had no place in the cold emptiness of her house; a jail-cell of a place without the freedom to be of his world.

She sighed, turning her head to smile at the face that returned the gesture with a smile of his own. The angel was seated on the side of the bathtub, his eyes a shade of violet that shone with the blue of affection, his hair tidily tied back, his clothes film-noir worthy black and white. A wistful ghost from the recesses of her unconscious desires. If only he were real. "Just a dream," she whispered, sadness melded with the matter-of-fact certainty used as a reinforcement for the truth of it.

"Only if you wish me to be."

It was the touch to her cheek that broke her out of slumber's grasp, yanking her from it's unwilling arms to jolt back into reality with a horrible start. She nearly jumped out of her skin, sitting up with a strangled sort of shriek that matched the hammering of her heartbeat and scrambled between the actions of reaching for some sort of defensive weapon and scanning the set of irises looking down on her from their seat above her head. Yet Azrael's eyes were his own, and so proved her dream to have been a lucid moment between segments of sleep-induced vision. Knowing this calmed her, even though her breath still stung in her throat, and she sank back into the pillow of warm water and frothy bubbles with a small huff.

"_Jesus,_ you scared me half to _death!_" She scolded, crossing her arms across her chest in hopes of appearing stern and chastising. But despite herself, she couldn't ignore how very handsome he looked in his shirt and black silk waistcoat. With his hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck and the silver chain of a pocket watch shining in a catchy crescent at his side, he looked formal and classy, like something from an old movie about Victorian lords who liked to wear their riding boots over their slacks. It was stark and clean, all crisp lines and sleek, subtle embroidery about the seams, and all-in-all, very him.

He smiled at her unintentional pun, chuckling, and pressed a quiet kiss to her forehead. One that turned into a longer moment where his lips lingered, pressed to her skin, and his hand cradled the back of her bubble-frothed neck. She frowned, still trying to put up the guise of anger; yet the effort went in vain. For her scrunched up nose and pursed lips she was cute instead of threatening, and her state of undress merely made him want to kiss the breath out of her instead of cower.

Straightening, he complained, "and here I was hoping to have a completely different effect on my ward..." Humor powdered the words like a light sprinkling of confectioner's sugar.

Lilith smiled, giving up her attempts to look fierce. "I'll bet you were," she teased, "something along the lines of causing her to leap into your arms and carry on about how much she missed you and smother you in mushy stuff, no doubt?"

His eyes twinkled, violet stars shaded with the touch of blue she knew and loved so painfully well. "Something like that," was his quiet murmur, the expression on his face so gentle and sweetly attentive to the bones and lines of her face that she could have melted just for him. It was his love that made her feel like a woman. And perhaps that was why she did exactly that; rise with a rather ungraceful splash from her bath, naked and covered in bubbles, to cling to him like a small child recovered from a horrendous nightmare filled to the brim with toothy monsters.

He was real; wonderfully real in her grasp, flesh and blood and smooth ivory skin. She had unbuttoned the collar of his shirt without even realizing her hand was moving, loosening the knot of the old-world tie of black and silver silk circling his throat, and ran her hand along the prominent line of his collarbone. Just the touch of that one slice of him combined with the enveloping lock of his forearms sliding around her back to hold her secure, safe from the chance of slipping from the wet coating her legs, was enough to jerk her heart close to splitting from the mixture of relief and happiness. "I missed you," she told him, matter-of-fact, in a voice that quavered like a newborn deer's first steps.

"I have missed you too, though it has only been a couple weeks." He spoke into her wet hair, his breath sweet and decadent, his callused hands smoothing against her back in a methodically soothing pattern. There was a tingle of magic to that touch; a tender trickle of fire that was more light and color and warmth than anything else of substance that had a mortal-known name. It wasn't something that worried her. Knowing him, he would be checking her functions and metaphysical frequencies – her pulse, her temperature, the pattern of her breath – to assure himself that she was whole and well. It seemed like the kind of thing he would do.

"A month and a half," she retorted, half-muffled by speaking her protest into the space between jaw and ear. "It's the twenty-fifth, today."

He tsked, the click of his tongue soft and apologetic. "So it is. I apologize, it was difficult to get away." He mentioned no details about the war, but he didn't need to speak of it for her to understand that there was no fighting being done yet. Which disagreed with his words.

"Difficult?"

"It is not considered prudent for a general to abandon his soldiers, regardless of the importance of his reason. Nevertheless, I have my ways of squeezing through loopholes."

This seemed vaguely amusing. Somehow, she couldn't really see her proper, polite-minded Azrael sneaking by rules no matter how silly he found them to be. But she countered her own thought with very vivid memories of him hot-wiring a car among other, much more serious offenses, such as making an illegal half-immortal hybrid out of her, for one. Perhaps he had more bad-boy blood in him than she gave him credit for. "What kind of loopholes?" she asked, genuinely curious.

Quiet laughter rumbled deep in his chest, and he gently took her hand, directing it to rest against his left arm and the thick padding of bandages rolled from mid-bicep almost to his wrist. She had to swallow her noise of distress. "Beelzebub accidentally dropped a spelled knife on my arm," Azrael informed her mildly, sounding rather bemused as he said it.

"You're not hurt, are you?" she questioned, the alarm set inside the query breaking through regardless of her intent to mask it. His scoffs proved the contrary yet her fingers lingered, feeling the layers of gauze under the crisp white cloth.

"It is a minor wound, but serves a reasonable enough excuse, since the knife in question has been known to induce fits of madness from its victims."

"Fits of...madness?" She repeated it as though tasting the word for the first time, craning her head across his chest to examine the arm she was still gingerly prodding at as though anticipating blood to start staining his shirtsleeve. If he was going to start acting loopy, she wanted to know about it. Though it might be a little funny to watch an angel staggering about and chirping about every little thing that caught their attention like a drunk...and terrifying at the same time.

"Something I, happily, am not prone to. Now, then," he shifted to gather some space between himself and his ward, quit effectively terminating the clingy grip she'd had about his torso. The change in position encouraged her to look up at him, just in time to catch the flat set of his fair features. "What is this I hear about you vomiting?"

Completely ignoring the stern, all-too-parent-like tone to his voice, Lilith caught a second snatch of temper from mostly-depleted stores. "I knew it!" she snapped, shoving her palm into his chest and knowing full well he would hardly feel it. "I _knew_ that dog was spying on me!" Narrowing dangerously, her green eyes fixed to Azrael's, demanding an explanation for the injustice that lay inside being spied upon by a magical dog.

Azrael was, as usual, absurdly tolerant of her mood change. He let the waves of resentment and prickling anger roll off his aura and calmly answered, "not spying. Spying implies the watching was meant for ill, and you know I mean you as much harm as a Spring rain—"

"Which is just as annoying."

"—be that as it may," his smile was searing and shut her up immediately. "I am willing to receive a bit of venom from you for it considering he alerted me to this sickness of yours."

"I'm not sick," she argued, "it's just a cold."

His white-blond head shook once, back and forth, refuting her denial. "No. Your immortal blood prevents human sickness."

Lilith swallowed, feeling an uneasy discomfort creeping through her, edging at the back of her mind like a black storm cloud approaching fast on the horizon. She had been wary of that answer. "And there's no way there was a little mistake or something? Maybe when I was converted, or anything?" _Please, let him say there could have been._

Again, he shook his lovely head. "No, sweetling, there was no mistake."

Not even the use of that dratted, beloved pet-name was enough to make her ignore the grave stoniness that lined his expression. "What does that mean? Have I been poisoned?"

"I have found no trace of anything in your system, which is almost more worrisome than if there had been." Azrael's fingertips traced down her spine, his eyes focused on more than just her face, seeing into her in a way that no doctor could have accomplished even with their advanced scopes and scans and x-rays. She knew in that instant that all along his touches had been for more than mere affection. "You are flushed. Beyond what you should be, making allowance for the hot water, and your heartbeat feels sluggish, uneven. Yet I can see nothing. No herb, no spell...nothing." And he didn't sound pleased about it.

He was visibly troubled by this bit of sickness and that worried her. As she knew better than to downplay Azrael's overprotective tendencies when it came to things like spells intended to harm or hinder, the fact that there was nothing there for him to burn, beat, or beguile out of her body was something to be reasonably concerned about. The last time something as suspicious as this had happened and made him get this analytically stone-faced, a demonic, magic-infused tracker had come leaping at them out of the night. And the last time he'd noticed something strange and had been unable to find its source...she had come close to being no more than a bodiless soul for him to escort to the afterlife.

She took a deep breath, intending to calm the swells of fear growing like weeds inside her chest, and Azrael jumped, startled out of his deep-set examination of her inner condition. Violet eyes flickered downward, just a trace, before he tore that instinctual gaze right back up to her face in a way that was almost stiffly embarrassed. She stared at him, surprised by the odd jerk of motion that seemed so out of place for someone usually so graceful. And then she realized that his eyes had shifted, shedding the harsh, paler gray of dread in favor of a blue so rich and deep that it could have been at home in a sky during the last remnants of twilight before the black came. A color that was just a little past warm endearment.

Apart from a few desperately surviving patches of bubbles, wearing nothing but her skin. The blush started deep inside her, spreading from the lowest pit of her stomach outward until her entire body seemed to flame with a bashful kind of hyper-awareness, radiating with a soft, gooey-warm happiness that could only come from knowing that he still found her attractive. Attractive enough to be a distraction, no less. "That wasn't something I'd have expected from you." She mused, a little shyly, purposely making her mouth move so that she might avoid the reflex wanting her to cover up for the sake of modesty no longer needed.

"I apologize," he smiled...and though it hardly seemed possible for a man to look sheepish and still handsome enough to want to tackle to the floor, he pulled it off quite nicely. "Such things come from withdrawal."

There was a weight to the way his tongue handled that last comment, innocent as it was, and it made her joints feel weak and shivery. She relished it, the way he made her feel; not just with these impromptu little moments of intimacy through eyes and voice and the smooth exchange of breath, but the way she felt so much more like herself when he was around. It was almost as though without his presence to paint her with color, she was little more than a charcoal sketch upon an empty white canvas. He was like a conductor for the spark of electricity that hid, enclosed inside the introverted nature that had developed her. A reminder of why it was she had pined during all those long, gray winter days.

And with the low, smoldering fire burning in his eyes, the sweetness of his scent ensnaring the freedom from her senses, she forgot how she could have survived without him next to her.

Instinctively, though it was an instinct driven more by a heart recently discovered than by an actively plotting mind, she lifted her chin, asking him for a kiss that would take her small scare away, tuck it behind a curtain of things more pleasant to undertake. His breath hitched, a reaction felt merely out of closeness. It told her a story of longing. Yet her lips no more than brushed the edge of his before he was suddenly gone.

With a smooth adjustment of weight, he had risen to stand, lifting her right off her feet and pulling her from the bathwater. After magicking the waiting towel to miraculously appear, swathing her wet body in far more folds of terry-cloth than there probably were originally, he tucked an arm beneath her thighs and carried her back into the bedroom. "Put something on, please," he requested as he set her gently down again. "My better judgment is something to be obeyed as of yet, and something that is less likely to remain in tact with you naked. We need to take care of this."

"I still say it's just a cold," she groused, not bothering to hide that she was a little miffed by his refusal to indulge both in having walked in on her naked and a very open invitation to slake that withdrawal he'd mentioned. A single eyebrow raised, Azrael pointed to her dresser, then turned his back to her, leaving no room for argument. With a tiny, frustrated sigh, she rubbed herself dry (perhaps a little more aggressively than was necessary) and dropped the towel to the carpet. She yanked open her underwear drawer, feeling resentful and a little sad that this reunion wasn't turning out like she had imagined it would.

Azrael's voice called her attention, making her glance toward him in the middle of making a choice on a pair of plain blue-striped cotton panties. "Vomiting plus acute paranoia hitherto unrelated to your usual variety—" he flatly ignored the wadded underwear she threw at his back, "—is a serious combination when in tandem with an irregular bloodbeat. I am going to take you back to Hell, and use the elevated magic-currents there to aide me in some attempts to pinpoint what is causing an unnatural illness. Ah...wear something loose about your arms, please?"

Lilith rummaged through her drawers for something that would coincide with the request, which seemed difficult to humor due to her winter wardrobe's rather constrictive contents. Luck, it seemed, was on his side, however. She unearthed a summery blouse with ruched sides and a loose sleeved that tapered from the upper arm down in soft, cotton waves to rib-level. The soft blue was warm and gentle, and slid on easily over wet hair and simple white bra, and complimented the stone-washed gray jeans that she shimmied into, denim folding and buttoning atop matching white underwear of the lace bikini-cut variety. Not that underwear was important...but it made her feel a little better, all things considering. Sarah was right, clothing did good things to self-esteem.

"Ok," she proclaimed once the wrinkles in the blouse were smoothed with irritable hands, spreading her arms for dramatic affect (an affect that was also just a tiny bit bitter), "I'm decent."

Frowning slightly at her tone, an iridescent line imprinted at the edge of that lovely mouth, he turned. Yet the frown was slaughtered where it sat as he took her in – all soft curves and lines, damp hair and bare feet – and he smiled at her. The kind of smile that made her forget why she might have resented his decisions to protect her wellbeing above everything else there might have been between them. The kind that reminded her that this purposeful lack of indulgence was difficult for him as much as it might be to her. Her flesh warmed and her heart trembled under the softness of that smile. "No," he corrected, voice hushed, almost as though the moment was a pane of glass too beautiful and delicate to be shattered by volume. "You are positively _indecent._"

Beside her, he was a solid presence of stability, a formidable energy that purred as gently as a kitten. His hand slid down the length of her bare arm and lifted her wrist to his mouth for a brief kiss, pausing only to brush his nose against the tender space of skin there and fill himself with the smell of her. The gesture was remarkably intimate, more so even than the guiding touch of his other hand across her back to rest against the slope of her hip. Of course, she was probably the only living being with mortal blood in their veins who might know that little fact about the immortal man.

He brushed a second airy kiss to the joint just beneath her thumb, drawing a smile and a fond stroke of her fingers through his ponytail from her. "I never can stay mad at you," she told him frankly, tucking her head against the muscular structure of his chest as he walked her back toward the bathroom.

"I am glad to hear that," he replied and spun her into a gentle, waltz-worthy half-pirouette under his arm.

The fond brush of her fingertips to his cheek was acknowledgement given to his appeal to her recently discovered romanticism, but a brief one as she took a glance around, at the bathroom and the still filled tub, and asked a little gingerly, "I don't have to drown again, do I?"

Azrael tactfully suppressed a small outburst of laughter behind a polite cough. "Certainly not. I merely need water to transport you, and since there is little other moisture in the air in here, it seemed an easy option."

"Yeah...dry winter this year," she agreed with a small nod, and wincing as she quickly pulled a comb through her still rather wet hair. Pausing mid-stroke to readjust her combing angle (to better suit the severe amount of tangling going on at the back of her head), she thought about what he had just told her and the implication it had made. He just needed water to take them from one plane of existence to another? Did that mean this was something she could do herself, or did it require other magic as well? Surely it couldn't be that easy. Things rarely were. "Can I transport myself? Could I learn how?"

Taking the heavy-duty comb from her grip, the angel assessed the damage, then began slowly guiding the large plastic teeth through small sections of thick dark hair, patiently and attentively smoothing out the angry snarls that knotted her hair after washing. He seemed neither taken-aback nor uncertain about her question, merely matter-of-fact as he answered it without a single falter in his steady disentangling.

"I would doubt it," he said, the low, mellow tone of his voice slightly thoughtful as he configured fact and hypothesis into his words. "Realm-to-realm transport calls for an amount of personal magic to enable the soul form to travel through the various barriers of both spell and dimension and a bit more to take another soul alongside. It is hardly difficult, but it is not something most human-born souls are capable of."

There was a loophole in that speech, and one she had caught immediately. Yet before she had a chance to ask him for clarification, he was already halfway into the secondary explanation...yet another little reminder of why she loved this man so very much. He never quashed her questions.

"I say _most _due to the majority of the few hybrids that have been made coming through the process with no source of magical energy—we call it _Manath_—to call their own." His fingers joined the comb to help coax a particularly nasty knot into behaving. "One," he added, "did, however. And to this day we have no idea why."

The likelihood of Azrael, scholar and skillful magician that he was, merely accepting this anomaly for a freak accident was very slim. "What do you think caused it?"

"Hmm..." The comb's plastic teeth slid through her hair, only catching once or twice as he passed it through the length of her hair from crown to nearly the middle of her back. He was mulling it over, and taking his time about it, but she was pretty positive this was so he could translate his thoughts into language she might be more likely to understand. "It seemed to be that the young man in question spent the majority of his life in close-contact with magic. Some of that magic appeared to be absorbed into his system, and because the nature of it was nurturing and protective in nature, his body assimilated it rather than rejecting it." His fingers curled around the knob of the sink drawer and laid the comb inside before shutting it quietly. "None of the other hybrids had such an exposure, and, it being the only variable, it seems reasonable to assume it caused his individual circumstances."

Well...all things considered, she had a feeling that her circumstances would not allow for such a gift. He made it sound like he would have known immediately if she had held the potential to work magic, as dangerous as it could be untrained and uncontrolled. "I assume that since I wasn't raised and kept swimming in magical energy-waves that I'm not a likely candidate for a repeat of that?" She peered up at his face, chin tilting over her shoulder to glimpse the smooth, subtle transition of shades to his irises. It was surprising, however, to see him look almost uncertain.

"It is...unlikely, but possible."

"Seriously?" It felt as though her eyes couldn't get any wider. She hadn't really expected anything but negative by way of an answer, not really, not where she kept her bitter realities and down-to-earth fortitude.

He gave a little shrug, a movement that he made somehow a graceful ripple of shoulder muscles instead of a semi-awkward admission of not knowing. "I have spent a generous quantity of protection magic on you throughout the course of your life thus far. Judging by the parallel of Tobias' upbringing and your own, it is possible that you may have developed a source of your own magic."

The tip of one elegant finger touched the little hollow at the center of her collarbone, and she could feel the shimmering pulse of his magic flow from that touch like a pulse of heat. If asked, she would have described it as being injected with a warm, vaguely purple-feeling mist. And it wasn't necessarily a bad feeling, for as invasive a spell as it was. The slide of heat skimmed through her, flesh and beyond flesh, feeling and perusing and searching, almost a scanning sort of flicker that was retracted with a sigh of release, then it was gone. Lilith tilted her chin to look up at her guardian, not pressing his hazy eyes, focused on her inside instead of her questioning gaze, and merely let him hear the curiosity she worried might leak from her mouth despite her good intent to be patient.

Yet he merely smiled as he came back to her idea of reality, a sort of sadly-sweet smile that knew he would disappoint her. "If it exists, I cannot sense it." Her face fell, only a little, but enough to make him tuck a hand beneath her chin and guide her back out of that disappointment. "That does not mean it is _non_existent," he clarified, "merely that I cannot find it. In many cases, such as with myself, even, the magic lies dormant until instinct is created and pushes it into reacting...usually in times of great stress of need."

She wasn't convinced. "But aren't you the epitome of magical know-how? If you can't find it, it isn't there."

"It is a fickle thing, magic," the angel said, lifting his right hand between them and showing her the little ball of violet fire that he cradled there, flickering and spitting shallow sparks. "And has a will of its own. But it is also a part of whoever hosts it, feeding from energy and emotion. It is a little like an animal, but once a relationship is created it will do whatever is asked of it, within reason to its abilities." The flame crackled, twisted, and reshaped into a burning line the end of which sparked and billowed, blossoming until it formed the petals of a tiny lily of the valley. Coolness ebbed into the warmth, a chill drawn from the warmth that filled the air in their lungs, and the flame hardened, crystallized, smoothed over with the diamond glitter of ice.

It was held out to her, not by his hand, but by his will; a floating flower of magic that shone and burned with the purple sheen of his inner essence. She took it without question, fingers shocked by the warm glow that emanated from the icy shell that covered the fire beneath it. A shock that her mind did not echo.

"You make it sound almost like a parasite," she said, tone light and lined with a touch of laughter, and cradled the flower in her hands as though it might shrivel into dust if she wasn't exceptionally careful. "But I think you mean it's like an artistic gift, or an affinity for super-advanced mathematics, something you have to work with in order for it to work right. Right?"

His smile curved into something a little closer to bemusement. "In a manner of speaking," he agreed, "however, magic is much more easily controlled than a painter's inspiration." For the first time he cast his eyes upon the flower he had crafted for her. Giving it an inspecting sort of once-over, he mused: "pretty enough, but relatively useless except for chilled hands."

Lilith folded the treasure to her chest. "I think it's lovely." She padded into the bedroom, to her bureau, where she laid the tiny crystalline flower atop her wood-paneled jewelry box. It glinted, a small promise of something warm and good to come home to when she next came back to it; a beautiful gift.

Which reminded her of another package wrapped in tissue.

"Oh!" Bare feet skittering against the floors of hallway and living room, Lilith went to the coffee table and scooped up the present that sat there, then hurried back to the bathroom where Azrael waited, fond patience all over his face. "I have something for you!" Her voice was cheerful, pleased and happy, matching the light pink of her cheeks and the smile that lit her up like candlelight. He said nothing, merely looked at the bag in her hands, and she fished around for the words to explain herself, slightly embarrassed. "It's a Christmas present. Though, I didn't know if Christmas is really a holiday, or if there _is_ a winter holiday...I don't know, it seemed like a nice thing to do—"

He leant over and kissed her cheek, which hushed her immediately. "It was a sweet thing to do," he told her, "to find me a Midwinter gift."

Good! She'd gotten at least this guess somewhat close to being right. Holding it out to him, fidgety with anticipation and mind-hearted terror, she pleaded for him to open it.

There was something purely wicked in that lovely male face as Azrael patted her head and told her sweetly: "of course. _After_ you let me test you for the source of your vomiting." She scowled at him, peeved to have been fooled so easily, and even more for surrendering with no more than a tiny huff. The little tantrum of silent seething elicited a quiet murmur of laughter from her angel, who took her hand in his and called the water in the air to mesh, solidify, and open the way to the path leading to hell.

Her eyes squeezed tightly shut, anticipating the gut-wrenching yank at the base of her navel that tore her through space and time, through air and fire and ice. Great, formless hands scooped her up, transferred her, and dropped her in a room of obsidian, led her down the halls lit with torches, and through the carved wooden door that was more than just a door to eyes that could see beyond the simpler truths. Violet irises watched closely as she passed over his threshold, searching for a flare of warning magic to prove the existence of a curse.

A curse that simply wasn't there.

* * *

**OHMIGAWSH. I'm so very sorry for the wait...I had weird surges of partial-inspiration for this chapter and it didn't want to lay down for me. I made it eventually...but the ending is not what I wanted. However, I decided to stop here instead of forcing further and probably delaying your (and my own) gratification any more. So, here you are, my lovelies! Just for you!**

**Something tells me, and not just because of your reviews (those of you who did so, bless you, and my utmost appreciation and love!), that some of you know what's going on. Not that I make it excruciatingly difficult...in fact I probably just confirmed it for some of you! But, you never know! :D **

**Now, the sad news. My summer quarter started yesterday, and I'm afraid to say that I may have bit off more than I can chew. I'm going to be freakishly busy trying to pass my three really difficult classes and I don't know when I'll have time to work on the next chapter. I'll do my very best to get it done and up in a timely manner, preferably before August...but I just don't know. I do, however, have a LiveJournal now, which I will post at more frequently. It features (and will feature) news, what's going on, status of chapters, some more character-image links, ramblings about plot ideas and scene ideas, what other whatnot that I don't have room for here. You're welcome to look me up and read, comment if you're willing, and just tune in to the workings of the MH-authoress' brain, and even offer her ideas in turn! I'll get the link in my bio.**

**With a sigh, this is where I leave you for now. Please, kindly review for me, and know that you have my utmost adoration and devotion for it.**

**Until next time! **


	6. Finding Faith

**Chapter 6: Finding Faith**

Recommended Listening: Recommended Listening: "Psychedelic Soul" by Yoko Kanno [from Ghost in the Shell],  
"Where Will You Go" by Evanescence, "First Time Outside" by Zbigniew Preisner [from The Secret garden] and  
"Election by Adoration" by Joshua bell/Hans Zimmer [from Angels and Demons]

* * *

"So I just twiddle my thumbs until you've planned out the details of whatever you're...planning?"

Lilith cast a curious glance over her shoulder and toward the spot where Azrael stood poring over a dusty old book. He flicked a page, granting her a quiet hum of inaudible response, and remained immersed in his reading. She sighed, and patiently turned back to facing forward in the straight-backed wooden chair, keeping careful not to shuffle her feet and smudge the interlocking circles drawn with white chalk upon the floor directly beneath her. The angel would answer her questions in good time, she just had to wait.

He had all but herded her through the halls of hell once she'd blinked away the lingering tingles of transporting energy and found herself in the large, obsidian-walled room she vaguely remembered from what felt like a dream; his hand a perpetual pressure at her lower back guiding her to his rooms and shooing her across the threshold like a mother hen. The image had made her stifle a snicker since, despite the humor, she understood that Azrael wasn't in the mood to appreciate it. He had a driven, thought-ruled look on his face that didn't inspire in her a desire to interrupt. And though she had been slightly indignant to his ushering her through the door to his side of the suite, into an empty stone corridor, and into his workroom like a wayward lamb, she had kept her mouth shut. Never let it be said Lilith Gandion couldn't recognize a moment to favor silence.

In reality, she recognized the emphasis to his movement; direct and measured, paced, he had gone straight to the counter which lined the wall to the immediate left and back of the room and began shuffling through the piles of books shoved back into the corner. He was acting like he did when facing magic, like when they had come across a body in the street suffering the side-effects of a curse, and she knew the mood was one that functioned with a rapt, focused attention to the problem at hand and little else. It hadn't been the first time he reminded her of a bird of prey. Something about the way he lent himself fully and unconditionally to his academic art was purely reminiscent of a hawk or falcon's wheeling, gliding grace, attention spared for naught but the quarry seeking to evade him.

Admiring the line of his back and shoulders as he leant over his books, she had seated herself in the chair that had been tucked in the opposite corner, watching him sift through first one book and then another. Shortly, he pulled open a shallow drawer and selected a cloth bag. She had sat up straight, eager, hoping she might be getting answers; but in the bag was nothing but powdered chalk. Azrael took a generous handful and began sprinkling thin lines of the stuff along the smooth floor of seamless stone.

The intricate, overlapping circles and interwoven designs reminded her of sand-painting, but it was less, and yet somehow much more than mere pictures. Every line had a purpose. Immense concentration went into the proportioning, the placement, the meaning, as was evident by the strict monitor Azrael kept on the hand wielding the chalk. Circles in circles, arcing lines that cleared the boundaries of one and joined the arc of another. Symbols drawn by crouching close to the floor and using two measured, careful fingers to draw the letters (or perhaps they were runes, or glyphs?) with the utmost precision. It became a spiderwebbing of chalk strewn across the muted shine of the stone beneath them; beautiful, clean, and curious. She wanted to ask him what it was for, but chose instead to wait until he was in a state of mind that might allow her words to penetrate his thoughts.

Finished, the angel dusted his hands and tossed the drawstring bag onto the counter, where it (with a soft thump of noise) joined the chaotic clutter of books, sheets of paper and parchment, quills plan and fancy, stone inkwells, and a glass bottle of clear liquid she assumed was water. She spotted a mortal and pestle, and a shallow oil-burning lamp that looked as though it hadn't been used in many long years. A multitude of empty vials, small hand mirrors, spools of thread, lengths of knotted cord, lumps of crystal and precious stone dotted the mess; thrown completely out of any sense of sane order. The tidiest thing in the room was the little rack at the far end of the counter, kept clear of the rest of the piled disorder, and the most ominous of all: a rack of ceremonial knives, pristine and shining in the glow of the crystal globe that hung as though suspended from the ceiling. She looked uneasily away from these, the sheer deadly beauty of them leaving a heavy dread in her heart, concerned about what kind of spells might call for the use of such weaponry.

The jumble made her fingers itch to start organizing, but she wouldn't have dared to get up and put her hands all over his things. That would have been rude and insensitive when uninvited; and it wasn't his fault she was a librarian and a neat-freak. Still, she eyed the clutter, trying to understand how he could make sense of it all.

Distracted, Lilith was quite thoroughly startled when her chair was taken by the base and lifted (with her on it) into the center of the chalk circles where she was set gently down. Once she was in a place he found suitable, Azrael had stepped lightly through the chalk lines, smearing not a one, and back to the counter to bury his nose in his book. All without uttering a single word.

Shocking.

And so there she was, plucking at her sleeve, and trying to be patient with his worry-induced state of studiousness. She did try, really, truly she did. She attempted to occupy herself with the plans for Alice's wedding, going over the small list of things Sarah had assigned her to complete by the following week. But there was only so many times she could remind herself to call and check up with the florist, call each of the groom's party to make sure tuxes were rented, and appointments for hair and nails and other such things were made before driving herself up the wall. Once that topic was worn through, she tried to come up with a to-do list for work…which got as far as number one before she retired it and attempted to recite her multiplication tables just to hush the irritating buzz of activity in her brain.

So when Azrael came to stand in front of her at the edge of the circle, she was happy to see him; especially since his face was not near as diverted. His eyes were open, focused on her in a way that was personal instead of studious. "Forgive me," he apologized, his voice quiet and just slightly abashed. "I was distracted."

He went to one knee, lowering the items he carried to the floor and began sorting them into an ordered line. A mortar and pestle of a size smaller than the one she had spotted and made of a white ceramic was set gently at the edge of the outermost chalk circle. A small glass bottle of pale pinkish-yellow liquid followed it, as was a sizable cloth drawstring bag of unknown contents and a jar filled to the brim with tiny black spherical things that looked oddly like peppercorns. Two lumps of stone, one shiny black and the other pale, crystalline purple, were the last pieces to the assorted puzzle of ingredients; and Lilith was quite happy to admit to herself that she had very little idea of what significance any of these things had.

From what she understood about her guardian and his world (her world too, now), she could deduce that magic had not only many uses and methods, but that it was used in ways that were often more than simply putting up impenetrable walls or fishing for the solution to a problem. She had seen bits of Azrael's magic since he'd made his presence known to her that late November night not so very long ago and most of it had been of a passive nature; protective barriers, mending walls, revoking and removing a curse, and the like. Once he had even used a thread of instinctive magic to ensnare her pitiful human senses and bewitch her with glamour…though that didn't really count because he hadn't really needed the glamour at all in reality.

On the other hand, she had also witnessed terrible pieces of magic. Namely the thing called a _Deacca_; a damned soul welded into an animalistic body, twisted by demonic spellwork and infused with the unending drive to hunt and destroy whatever target it was given. She could still remember the thing's eyes, pits of flame and charred ash, the oil dripping like sweat and blood from its waifish, unnaturally long-limbed body. She could also recall the smell of burning hair and flesh as Azrael had brought his hand down upon the back of its neck, snapping its lifeline and sending it back to the hell it had come from with his own powerful brand of cleansing and ending spells.

The encounter had been an eye-opener in an assortment of ways. First and foremost, the dichotomy of good and evil was not nearly so simple and straightforward as she had assumed upon being presented proof that it actually existed. There were things that went bump in the night that were more terrifying than a nightmare purely because they were real. Secondly, she had begun to realize that there was more to her guardian angel than what met the eye, ear, and any other deceiving human sense.

Since that day, something in Lilith had known that the raw, unfiltered power of an angel's spiritual energy could lay half the earth to waste…give or take some square kilometers depending on said angel's capacity to access that power, and depending on whether said angel possessed the ability to wreak such physical havoc. Azrael had the power, the capacity, and the ability. It was a fact she didn't need spelled out for her. It was difficult to imagine a single being – something that looked no different than a normal person – possessing a kind of force akin to an atomic bomb ten times over. She didn't know how, but she knew it was true.

Despite the kind of terror the concept should have instilled in her, Azrael's magic fascinated her. The chance to see more of it, even if merely to pinpoint what was going on inside her body, was one she graciously and enthusiastically welcomed. It wasn't everyday you got to see your childhood dreams of magic and mystery turned into truth.

Drawing a small silver-framed hand mirror from a pocket of his waistcoat, the angel explained: "I was unsure what kind of spell to use that would accomplish what I intended without either draining your spiritual energy or drawing your blood. The latter, I fear, is unavoidable." He uttered a soft sigh. "However, I found something suitable, and something which only needs to be done once, versus performing many spells to search for all the various things that could have been done to you. Say, like an allergen test with a single pinprick rather than many with each single prick checking for one type of allergy." Lifting his eyes to her, a wan smile curved the edge of his mouth. "This should not be too much of an ordeal, I hope."

Lilith decided to pretend she hadn't heard anything about blood. As she understood his explanation of the spell he'd found, she felt a touch of relief for something she hadn't even guessed she should fear. Only one process versus an unnumbered repetition was hardly a bad thing. So on to the pestering. "What's the chalk for?" she asked, indicating the circles by pointing, without touching, with her bare toe.

"It is an alchemic circle," he answered, proving that she had been right to think he would answer her questions with a generous amount of patience. "A manner of blueprint to help me direct the function I require of my magic and to aide me in receiving a detailed answer to the question I want to pose." Azrael extended a hand, pointing to the innermost circle, which enclosed her neatly and completely in its chalky white ring. "That one I added to protect you from any potential side-effects that could meddle with your spiritual energy, keep it from making you tired and lethargic." Next he indicated the symbols making four corners between a mark that looked like a Star of David mixed with a Celtic knot. "Those are the four cardinal points, but in the place of the standard marks, I used symbols that will enhance my magical awareness."

Lilith hesitated slightly before posing her question, uncertain as to whether she really wanted to know the answer. "Why do you need to enhance it?" she asked softly, hands pressed to her thighs and her eyes fixed warily to the carved angles of his face.

His irises were tinted with a light, refreshing blue that went hand-in-hand with the access of knowledge and study. But underneath that, there was an awful gray cast to the edges of those beautiful, expressive eyes, one that spread inward to the pupils like a storm cloud, oppressive and dark. One that said he was as much worried as he was anything else. "I cannot afford to miss anything," he said.

On an impulse, she decided against asking for clarification. The implicated risk there might be should he _miss anything _wasn't something she wanted to dwell on. She still firmly believed that there was nothing more than a small cold to blame for her symptoms, however, she did have to admit his repeated claims to the contrary were beginning to shake her faith a tiny bit. What if he was right and she had been spelled or cursed or something just as nasty? Who would try to curse _her?_ What wrong had she done? Who could she have offended so badly?

Azrael's slender white hand slid beneath the mortar, the dish cupping in his palm like an open ceramic flower. He took the bag – large enough to hold a guinea pig, small enough to hold a wide variety of things – and tugged the string until it split the tied end open, reached inside, and extracted two finger-length, teardrop shaped leaves of a rich green. They were dried, crumpling easily into a rough powder when crushed with a hand and dropped into the mortar's bowl. He into the bag once more and his retreating fingers held three small berries of a dark, rustic purple, the color of black fury in the eyes of the angel who held them so gently so as not to squash their tender skins. These, too, were dropped into the mortar.

"Elder," he recited, though it wasn't clear whether he was doing so for her benefit or his own. "Both leaf and berry, to force revelation." The jar's lid was unscrewed and set aside, allowing Azrael's hand to slip inside its wide mouth to fish three of the black things from inside and add them to the rest. "Pepper to heighten awareness, sharpen senses, and to aid in seeing the unseen." The bottle, swirled glass adding a strange, twisted look to its contents, was uncorked and tipped over the bowl, adding a teaspoon's worth of the yellow-pink liquid, thick and syrupy, to the mixture.

A whiff of some sweet, half familiar fragrance singed the nerves inside her nose, delicate and pure. She had a name for it, yet it was only half out of her mouth before her guardian spoke it for her.

"Rose oil for relaxation, to ease the nerves and calm the spirit."

She knew the oil had no other purpose than to soothe her. Its place there was immaterial to his purpose, but its presence was for her benefit and comfort, and she couldn't fault him for it. Once she was paying mind to her own body, she discovered that her fingers were digging into the flesh just above her knees. Nervousness, it seem, was inescapable even when she knew the spell being laid out in front of her would cause no harm to her.

The pestle ground into the base of the mortar's bowl laden with plant bits, pulp, and liquid. It crushed the contents to a runny sort of cream, its color an interesting greenish purple and its smell peppery, flowery and tingling to the sense of scent. Though she expected this to be immediately smeared across various pieces of her skin; Azrael set both tools on the ground, gathered up jar, bag, and bottle, and returned them to the counter. As he turned back as if to return to his post he paused, cocking his head as though he heard some small, placating sound from over his left shoulder. To her dread, he turned back, reaching with a steady hand for the ebony rack of blades, selecting from its sturdy clutches a thin-bladed knife akin to one he had used before…with which she had cut her own palm.

He brought the knife with him when he crouched down beside the circle, blade turned so that it lay flat against his bare wrist. Taking up the two stones, shimmering and iridescent, he stood, and took two steps inside the circle, taking a care not to smudge the lines, and placed one at the point for north, where it sat, purple and sparkling, just before her feet. "Amethyst for mental tranquility and balance," his voice was quiet, "and for protection." He circled her, around to the point for south, and placed the second, black and eerily shiny. "Obsidian to reveal the hidden."

Spiritual energy was like a soft hum of warmth at her shoulder, and she looked up to see him rolling up his shirtsleeves, the white fabric bunching underneath his elbows crisp and clean and revealing the thick, sterile bandages that wrapped his left arm down to the wrist. There was something ominous about the way he held the knife toward her. The weapon was a beautiful thing; its grip and guard were wrought iron and masked with silver so that it took the shape of a tree complete with pitted bark and heart-shaped leaves curving under the guard's shallow crescent arc. The pommel was a cage of silver surrounding an opal, glittering with pale blue fire, complimenting a blade whose metal seemed to sing with the same blush of sky-color. Lilith filled her eyes with it, beautiful and terrible, and tipped her head back to see the tinge of apology and empathy lining the gray in his eyes.

"I am sorry," he told her softly, "but I need a little bit of blood for this to be in any way fruitful." Again he held the blade toward her, holding it out for her to use now instead of examine. "A finger will do."

She did as he asked, reaching out and touching the tip of her index finger to the sharp edge. Pushing lightly, she pressed until her skin was breached and, with a tiny sting of pain, blood blurred the silver's sheen with red. "It would be a lot less intimidating if you used something like a scalpel, instead of coming at me with a dagger," she complained, wincing at the inconvenience of the cut and sticking it into her mouth to stop the bleeding.

A smile touched his lips. "A scalpel is a cold, modern tool with no history, no pride, and no use to add to my magic," he instructed, tilting the blade so the drop of blood ran along its edge like a scarlet tear. "My athame should not intimidate you at all…it is more a tool than a weapon. Granted, I did just use it to cut you…" Azrael's skin was smooth and cool as he took her hand and coaxed her damaged finger from her mouth, examining the small reddened wound with a tinge of regret in his expression. He smoothed his own finger over the cut, and with a smooth, cooling tingle of magic, he'd closed it neatly and effortlessly so her skin was whole. Lifting her hand so that her fingers brushed his lips, he kissed her, and gave her her hand back.

Wielding the knife in one hand and baring the forearm of the other gave her all the warning she needed…and yet, as the bloodied blade came arcing down, she couldn't find the will to look away out of pure horror. She didn't even have the time to screech. Deft and quick, Azrael cut into his wrist; making one long line of red in the pale surface of his flesh and sinking the blood from her body into his.

He let out a hiss, the sound light and a shimmer of a word she didn't know, more than mere noise and more than pain. But before she could grab his sleeve and question whether he was alright, the angel exited the circle, one palm pressing heavily on her shoulder to impress upon her his wish that she remain seated. Kneeling at the edge adjacent from Lilith, he took the knife, held it over the mortar, and tipped three drops of blood into the mix.

Instantly she could feel the magic swelling to fill the room, a pulsing force that had been hidden to her until that very moment. It pressed upon her mouth and nose, flowed into her lungs when she inhaled, cloyed around her, twining like a heavy, solid weave binding her from all sides. Her wrist burned with a blazing fury, almost as if a hot coat had been sewn up inside it, flesh screaming, veins seizing and all sense warped beyond her ability to define. And yet…none of it was her feeling. She felt it as though filtered through a veil, ebbing away almost as soon as it began, and she realized that she was feeling what Azrael felt.

As soon as she looked up at him, the pain had cooled completely. In its place there was a probing wave of magic swimming through her. The angel sat in a meditative pose, legs crossed, hands still, eyes closed, with the knife at one side and the pocket mirror at the other. The mortar was nowhere to be seen. With a sharp clap, he pressed his palms together. The weighty snap of magical inertia exerted from that clap was enough to slam her spine back into the back of the chair. Flesh pinioned in place, she stared, fascinated, as he lowered his hands to touch them to the floor.

The very tips of his fingers rested atop the outermost chalk circle, powdering his skin an unnatural white, and at a measured, liquid crawl a stream of violet fire began to flood the lines as though they were tiny trenches dug into the floor. Closer and closer it drew, tracing along the designs, turning the floor to the purple of twilight mingled with a storm. Then it was at her feet, a warmth licking at her bare toes. As soon at it touched her, she could feel its tendrils trace upward across her flesh, around her, into her, through her…until all she could feel was the slow, gentle heat of her guardian's magic touch.

Something inside her shifted, and she was suddenly very aware of her own heartbeat, the pulse in her blood quicker than it should have been, her temperature raised two degrees from that of what was normal. There was something wrong with her, something that wasn't an illness because she was perfectly healthy. As Azrael knew it, so did she. But neither did he recognize what it was.

Fear and frustration sent him digging further, peeling back each layer of her self and soul as he did so. And as he shoved deep into her heart – the bloodbeat surging through her brain like a drum – she fainted.

A boy's face filled her mind, forming out of the blackness. A beautiful boy with dark hair and a stubborn, soulful countenance to accent his expertly carved cheekbones, his mouth set in a line that spoke of stiff, frozen terror beyond reckoning.

The boy's body jerked backward, sharp and jagged as a cry of agony awful with shock ripped through her mind with all the accuracy of a javelin.

Cleaving his heart in two, the sword pierced his body like a pin through a dragonfly. The sorrow in the boy's eyes drained the color from the vision, sound crackling and drowning in the white noise of a humming, electrical static. The sound of magic called her from the dying boy's side, from the hands, clammy with death, reaching, straining for her and for the comfort she might offer him.

"Lilith…_Lilith!_"

She jerked out of the faint as though she herself had been run through, shying away from Azrael's grip upon her knee until she realized where she was. "Oh—" She lifted a shivery hand to her temple, feeling slightly nauseous. "What happened?"

Azrael, looking more concerned than ever, sat back on his heels and released a heavy breath. "You must have fainted due to the draining. Energy scans can be more than someone with a human origin can handle. I had hoped to spare you the affects of that, but it was not to be."

"No, I mean…" Lilith struggled with the words to describe what she'd felt. "After the heart scan, what happened?" The look he gave her was utterly blank, completely devoid of understanding. "You know, when you went deeper than the shallower, anatomical stuff."

As his brow furrowed, his eyes darkening with a worry that held an equal amount of confusion in its depths, she wished she hadn't asked. It made her feel freakish, the way he looked at her, as though he had never seen anything quite like her before. "You felt my scans enough to discern what they were?" He inquired slowly, and as she shook her head corrected: "you felt me test your pulse, or you would not have asked me about your heart."

Her head was pounding, the promise of a migraine for her troubles. She tried to think past it. "I guess so. I thought the spell was just making me see what you saw, or something."

"Hmm…" His lips parted, but before he spoke, he seemed to correct himself and stop. Then he looked away, releasing her from the attentive pressure of his eyes, and busied himself with the task of cleaning the knife sullied with blood.

Looking around, she noticed that the floor was clean, cleared of chalk circles and ingredients, of everything but her chair and the hand-mirror lying innocently by his knee as he ran a cloth over the blade. Surprised, she squeaked, "how long was I out?"

"Not long," he answered quietly.

"What about your arm? Are you ok?" Holding up his hand, he turned his wrist to face her so she could see the smooth, unblemished skin in place of the nasty cut. Relieved, she nodded. "Good." He went back to cleaning, saying nothing. It wasn't like him to be so reserved with her…had she done something wrong? Squeezing her hands together in her lap, she cleared her throat and asked, "um, so, what did the test say?"

At first Azrael said nothing, merely wiped the last speck of blood from his knife and rose to return it to its place among its fellows. When he returned to her, it was to pick up the mirror and hold it out to her. As she took it, she saw the surface was covered by a thin layer of the cream he had concocted with herbs and rose oil. The entirety of the reflective glass was concealed, and something told her this wasn't a good sign.

"When I could find nothing with my sight alone, I tried to make an imprint of the results on this, which should have worked." His expression was grim. "Were there any spell mark on you at all, it would have been imprinted here," he used a finger to write a letter on the surface, etching it into the cream to expose the mirror underneath, "like so. But there is nothing."

She swallowed a lump forming at the back of her throat. "Which means—"

"That I still do not have a name for your malady, and therefore no way to treat it."

A weary sense of disappointment flooded through her from throbbing head to toes. She had been so sure that this would prove to him that there was nothing wrong, that she was merely a freak hybrid with the flu. She had been wrong, and now she didn't know what to think…except that if he couldn't figure out what it was, she might be in for a world of hurt.

Her fear must have shown in her eyes, for at once the mirror was whisked away and Azrael had her out of the chair and into his arms, moving through the hall stretching through his rooms and to his bedchamber. "No more of that for now," he said, and his tone was full of the gentle, soothing notes that could send her off to sleep should he choose to. "We will deal with the matter tomorrow."

She was laid on something soft and warm, the lush comfort of his sheets and pillows a nest of luxury to her tired bones and pounding head. It hurt her still, the pangs of the faint. Her middle hurt as well, and her arm; with strange, echoing phantoms of the hurt she had felt there in illusion and dream. His fingers were cool and light against her temple, easing some of the pain with a soft spark of healing energy, his eyes worried beneath white-blond brows. He sat beside her, leaning over her with all the poise and posture of a wary guardian. "What pains you?" he questioned, "I can sense no injury, yet you feel hurt."

"I felt your arm," she said, reaching out to touch the place that had borne a bloody red mark, the same arm that was bound and bandaged some inches higher than she could see through his sleeve. "Before I…fainted."

Her voice had run dry, yet despite her silence, he knew this wasn't all there was to the story. "And after?" he prompted, hoping to coax the details from wherever she hid them, tucked away inside.

Lilith touched a hand to her ribs, at the place where her sternum ended just beneath her breasts. The pain there was only a hint of a memory, like that of a day-old bruise or a broken bone that it almost completely mended, but it was still there, lingering inside her. "I saw a boy getting stabbed," she murmured, so quietly that had she not known how acute his hearing was she might have expected him to ask her to repeat it. But he had heard perfectly.

Warm and smooth, his back of his hand stroked the slope of her cheek, tenderly urging her to look up at him. When she did, his eyes were not filled with the worry that she had gone mad, but instead with a light that was slightly curious more than anything else. As a matter of fact, he looked rather intrigued. Leaning close to where she lay nestled in his bedding, he touched two fingers to her throat, feeling for her pulse in the general manner of a caretaker. "Indeed? And did this vision appear out of darkness or light?"

Though she wasn't quite positive what he meant, she recalled that the image had come after a moment of pure black nothing, and so she deemed it best to answer simply with: "dark."

He gazed at her, seeming both bemused and fascinated by her response. "Interesting…" he mused, "do you have visions like this often?"

"Not at all," Lilith admitted, taking hold of the hand that slid across her palm and taking a large degree of comfort from the way his fingers curled around her. "I have some crazy dreams now and then, but no blackouts complete with moving pictures." She noticed the color in his eyes warp dramatically from grey-lavender to the magenta of surprise and back to grayed violet in an instant almost too quick to follow. "What? Is that bad?"

With a shake of his pale head, he assured her that no, it wasn't. "It is merely…" There was a delicate pause as he mulled over the words he needed to describe what was in his mind. "Unusual."

"Unusual how? Everyone has dreams, and dreams are usually made from the subconscious, things we already know, aren't they?"

"In most cases," Azrael agreed, rising to his feet and turning to face the wardrobe. The silver buttons of his waistcoat shone bright like stars in the soft light from the candelabra set on the small table beside the bed as they parted from fabric. Shadows made it easier to see the elegant brocade stitching that edged the seams of the raven-colored garment; it was black as its base, yet gave off an elegant shimmer. He shrugged out of the vest, folded it neatly, and tucked it into a wardrobe drawer.

The dress shirt took a little more effort to remove. Lilith would have offered her assistance had she not been rendered rather useless by his magic, and so was left to watch with sympathy as the angel struggled to maneuver his injured shoulder and arm out of his sleeve. He hadn't favored either arm just a few minutes ago, and he had seemed relatively unhurt by it, at least enough to carry her from one room to another. But now, either the bandages or the gouge they covered appeared to be causing him generous discomfort.

Voice muted and soft, she asked him, "Does that hurt?" and wished she could get up and take a look at it, slather it with antiseptic and…what, nurse his arm back to health? As if he needed her help.

Azrael shifted, adjusting the position of his shoulders and finally managing to wrestle the shirt from his shoulders. With a quiet sigh he assured, "not the way you mean." Folding the fabric into a square, he tucked it away and touched a hand to his gauze-wrapped bicep, tucking his fingertips beneath the topmost layer and began unwinding. "The spells on that were on the blade have a nasty after-affect that presses into the muscle when the cut heals. You know the acrid, bitter smell that raw metal has that, when breathed too deeply, seems to singe your nasal passage?" She nodded. "That is, in a way, what it feels like. But through touch instead of scent."

She wrinkled her nose. "That sounds vaguely evil."

His laughter sent of peal of happiness through her just to hear it reverberate through the room like the sweet chime of a morning bell. "Vaguely," he agreed, coming to sit down at the edge of the bed and peeling away the last of the gauze from his arm. It was already mostly healed. There was nothing left but a long, shiny pinkish line running from the curve of his shoulder blade and down the back of his arm, spiraling slightly to the back of his wrist as though he had jerked partially away mid-strike.

He looked up when her fingers rose and brushed lightly across the healing cut, ready to reassure away the sympathy he expected to see in her face. But, to his surprise, she was looking at the line with an almost calculating look in its place; her eyes were steady, no longer wide with horror as they were at the sight of the bandages. She was tracing the knife's path with an intuitive mind, from the deeper gauge at the start of his arm down to the slight skip just above his elbow and down to the smooth, steady arc from forearm to wrist. When she spoke, she did so with an edge of uncertain understanding.

"You could have dodged this…" she told him frankly, indicating the lower half of the wound.

There was no need to ask her how she could have known it. She had seen him fight before, knew how his reflexes worked based on a sense no human possessed, one of very altruistic precognitive instinct. "Perhaps," he replied amiably, turning beneath her hand to glance down at the mark.

"No _perhaps,_" was her insistence. "Right here," she laid her finger on the skip above his elbow, "you reacted and could have moved away. Why didn't you?" His shrug pulled her eyes from the shape of the line and onto the smooth shift of the muscle beneath the pale skin of his chest. Swallowing, she tore her eyes away and lifted them back to his face. "Well?"

Pretending, for the sake of her pride, that he had noticed neither the moment of distraction nor the slightly breathy edge to the voice she'd used to persist in her inquiry, Azrael smiled at her and lightly stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. "Because I saw a graciously presented opportunity to abandon my uneventful militaristic duty, and to steal you away for my own heinous reasons."

Lilith scoffed at him, blushing faintly. "You charmer," she muttered while he chuckled and pressed an affectionate kiss to her cheek.

He reached across her stomach, placing one palm flat against the pillow-strewn mattress and lifted his body until his left knee joined it, efficiently and smoothly trapping her body beneath the cage of his own. Clearly he intended to cross over to the space of bed still unoccupied next to her, yet he had barely begun to move again when she lifted her hands to his chest and, with a light touch, stalled him in his tracks. Eyes a curious shade of blue-ringed violet, he gazed down at her through the thin tendrils of pale hair that veiled them. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No." She had her lip between her teeth, and only just remembered that the habit was not one he preferred to witness before releasing it again. Nervous reaction or not, she had no reason to be anxious…despite how he might take her reasoning. She just wished he would do something to make her feel a little less like an invalid child being cared for by an elder brother. "It's just that, well…you seem distant—"

It was as if he heard it in the slightly hurt lilt to her voice, the way she shaped her words, or read it on the set of her mouth and chin. His lips were cool at first, yet they warmed as he took in the heat of her breath and drank the brandy of her taste, kissing her gently and insistently, as if a person could both scold and beg for forgiveness in a single gesture. His fingers traced the line of her throat, cupped her neck and lifted her head from her pillow to draw her closer and deepen his angle to one of utter devastation. Honeyed flame poured down her throat and soothed the ache there caused by what she had unwittingly named neglect. Pulling back, he brushed the end of his nose to her cheek, and murmured softly: "No, sweetling, it is not from lack of interest that I abstain. You know better than that."

"Then…"

A warm pressure spanned across her sternum, his palm resting over her heart and his eyes shadowed by dark, opalescent worry. "Your pulse is so much quicker than it should be," he whispered, "and it's not because I kissed you."

Her eyes widened slightly, alarmed by the unnatural use of a contraction.

After a few lengthy moments filled by feeling her heartbeat, fast and fluttering in her chest, Azrael sighed, lightly twisting so that he lay beside her, flat on his back and staring up at the canopy draped above their heads. "I am not above telling you that this worries me immensely," he admitted, passing a hand over his eyes as if to ward off the headache she knew he couldn't possibly have. "I will send a summons for Pandora tomorrow after I see to my visitations."

"Will she know what this is?" Lilith hesitated to ask, not sure she wanted to hear the imminent negative she was certain would be his answer. Yet he neither confirmed nor denied it. He merely gave a half-shrug and turned on his side to face her, his hair spilling across the black satin pillow beneath it.

"I know not," he sighed, "but I hope she may at least have a theory based on something I missed."

Turning on his side, he curled up around her, conforming his body to the shape of hers and draped an arm across her stomach. Warm and secure and lovely, he was everything she had remembered in her bout of loneliness, his skin smooth as ivory and soft like silk, his breath a comfortable softness against her cheek. She closed her eyes, savoring the easy weight of his touch. She had missed this, the contact, the closeness of having someone to simply be with…without the necessity of an excuse. He adjusted so that her head was tucked beneath his chin, and a smile curved the edge of her lips.

"We'll worry about it tomorrow," she murmured, "like you said."

"Mm," was his only assent before he doused the candles with a gesture and plunged the room into the kind of darkness that wheedled the brain to sleep. With his warmth and strength curled about her to aid her along the way, sleep came quickly and easily, unhindered by worry or fright.

It was only after she awoke to find him gone on errands that she realized he had never answered the question about her dreams; and whether or not they were strange. It wouldn't have concerned her, except that Azrael had never once neglected to answer a question she posed to him. Never.

It left her wondering what the implications of that could possibly mean (mostly negative in manner), and what kind of monstrous thing was lying dormant inside her subconscious.

* * *

The scene was a nasty one, and for all that he had seen so many of them, it was difficult to stomach. An earth piled high with bodies was not on his list of favorite things.

The tiny Tibetan monastery that sat nestled in a shallow valley to the east of Lake Siling was a slice of humanity that had remained unbesmirched by the modern world's heavy shadows. Normally it was a quiet bustle of activity, the monks and the people that inhabited the small village around it devoting themselves irrevocably to whatever tasks the day had planned for them. It had been a place of peace guided by its utter simplicity. As if even in the most mundane of tasks there lay beneath it something spiritual and pure, uncomplicated. They had held no cares for modern ideals like inequality and power. They had been kind to a weary traveler with features alien to their knowledge.

Kindness did no favors in a world consumed by the obsessive need for control.

A once calm village set into motion by day-to-day purpose lay in waste, charred by fire set to destroy the hard labor of generations. Compact stone and mud huts were black with soot, patches of food gardens crisped and eaten by the flames long burned to ash, livestock pens emptied by scavengers or thieves. Yet it was neither the choked air nor the barren destruction that was disturbing. It was the flecks of dried blood that seemed to speckle every surface imaginable, from ground to walls to dead flesh, which caused the horrible wrenching of the heart.

Azrael's eyes traced the dirt packed beneath the scattered bodies, lying where they had fallen to their wounds, bellies and throats yawning open to a red mess where they had been cleaved open, and felt a part of himself break at the sight of the peaceful place splattered with innocent blood. These people had done nothing to deserve such a fate. He had known only to well the amount of sheer, open-minded tolerance housed by such a simple way of life. Once, not terribly long ago, he too had met an end of sorts on grounds like these. But that had been many years ago, in Japan. The end to that story had rung with a similar tang of poor taste.

It never ceased to amaze him, the capability of humans for such faceless brutality. It was times like these when he was tempted to parrot old, half-forgotten claims that the creation of an angeloid species with uncompromised free-will was no less than courting disaster and inevitable heartache. But on the other side of the coin, there was humanity's capacity for great, unfailing love. Without it…without them, he would have wasted away to a mere memory of what he was.

He managed to take a step forward, the hard-packed dirt crunching beneath his feet as the weight detached the thin layer of frost from its resting place. Everything glittered beneath the rime of silvery crystals. Winter was not yet fully past its peak, which stressed the importance of cold-tolerant vegetation and grain-stores. Not that it fully mattered anymore; he pondered bitterly as he walked into the center of the square and lifted his face to the heavy wooden door to the temple. It creaked, very slightly, as its aged hinges were jostled back and forth by the wind made weighty by the season and the valley's slanted shape. He could just make out the Buddha carved from murky malachite, carried all the way from the mountains back when Tibet had been on relatively pleasant terms with their Chinese neighbors.

Lowering his gaze, Azrael's gray-tinged eyes came to rest upon the frail, broken body of the head monk who had once given him tea and rice-gruel, even when stores had been meager, under the guise of a beggar. The near-to-ancient man had fallen in the attempt to make peace. No doubt the monk had offered whatever supplies or riches the village had to prevent bloodshed. Perhaps if riches had been what were sought, they might have survived; as it was, not even the silver braziers set along the outer and inner temple walls had been touched. Slaughter had been the only purpose.

With a soft release of breath, the angel lifted his gaze to the clear white-streaked sky and murmured a quiet prayer for the dead; a gesture that would be considered proper according to the customs of the deceased. The language flowed across his tongue, but the drip of it from his mouth tasted bitter for his lack of indifference to the waste of life that had done no harm.

Before he opened his eyes, he knew he was no longer alone. There was no need to pick up the muted crunches of frost matched to footsteps, nor the shift of flesh through air; immortal senses could feel the approach of a spirit strong and vivid enough to invoke small, tingling trails of magical awareness to run down his chakra veins. The signal that meant his visitor was a powerful one was individual and unmistakable.

Muscles stiff with the measured patience of an animal waiting to be struck, Azrael tilted his head to look back over his shoulder toward the rise that led down some miles to the lake. It was with a chill of wary surprise that he took in the face of someone he had avoided at all reasonable cost since the rebellion.

What in God's name was _he_ doing wandering around so casually while a war was gaining force and energy all around him?

Many who remembered remarked on the resemblance of the angel of death to the eldest immortal entity aside from God herself. Common fancy told that Iaheva had mirrored the face of her second-youngest seraph after her beloved first child because she had favored it so. Yet while Azrael was fair and pale, the only immediate similarity that could be drawn between him and the being that stood across from him was the porcelain white of their skin. The blue-black obsidian of the hair that tumbled in a graceful tousle about the other male's face was very much his own, as were the dark eyes that seemed an innocent black from afar. Those eyes – once a fair, sky crystal blue – Azrael knew very well, were streaked with crimson.

Lucifer had a face composed of a devastating beauty that was, like Azrael's, made by the smooth line between high, graceful cheekbones and an aquiline jaw. The largest difference between them lay in the angled set of the darker male's eyes, an exotic lift that made him seem vaguely feline, or perhaps serpentine, offset by the curve of perfect ebony brows. He was no less handsome for it, and in his winter finery of ermine-lined leather jacket and matching slacks, he could have been the angel he was, once upon a time ago.

Had he been a dog, Azrael's hackles would have been up, though he would have kept his snarl to silence. Lucifer was infamous for his unpredictability, a symptom that tended to run with insanity among the fallen immortal…such as Balael or Samael, but while in most it was harmless, Lucifer had never been anything close to harmless in the entirety of his existence. The fallen angel had, after all, been the father of magical theory and the forger of many important spells, including ones other mages used almost every day.

Despite his often frivolous attitude, there were reasons why Lucifer remained the king of hell. His eldest son had inherited much of what had shaped and defined the remade being that had fathered him, including the feared second form of a dragon, but Beelzebub simply didn't have the power to usurp the older entity. Sheer brute power was often overrated, but not in some cases. Azrael did not hate the angel that had gone rogue and riled against God's rule, but nor did he have any love for the monarch. Whatever affection had lived inside his heart was replaced by caution, respect, and a grudging whisper of betrayal.

The expression on the Morningstar's peerless face was one of a still, forlorn dismay filtered through a veil of pale indifference. On another face, one less overtaken by the chill of the ice that seemed to emanate from him – colder still than the winter freeze that coated the land around them – it might have appeared sympathetic. Dark eyes empty, he surveyed the massacre in silence, finely carved mouth marred by a frown. "It is awful, isn't it," he murmured gently with a voice that could have coaxed diamond into melting if he asked it to. "The things they do to one another…"

Using as much subtlety as he could muster, Azrael raised a shield of magic to protect his mind and senses from the natural compulsiveness of Lucifer's musical voice. The demon wasn't trying to spell him, but it was never unwise to err on the side of caution. "It is," he agreed, projecting the image of a comrade, a fellow surveyor of yet another human tragedy.

Ruby-tinted eyes flickered, resting on the face of the younger, golden angel. For a moment Lucifer did nothing but observe, motionless, but he made no effort to conceal his instinctive weighing of the air and the energy that crackled, very gently around Azrael's spirit force. If Azrael could have sensed and read suspicion and wariness on another mind's feeling, most especially in the avoidance of eye-to-eye contact, Lucifer could see it as though it was painted neon orange. The younger entity kept a very deep-set hope that Lucifer would interpret any unease as a reaction to the scene set before them, and nothing else.

Yet Lucifer said not a word about it, merely shifted his blackened gaze back to the strewn bodies. "I have never understood how you can do this day after day." The dark king's tone was almost gentle, a fine, feather of a statement made with a grace that flowed along the words without pretense or pettiness. It was most unlike him, truth be told, to show this manner of something so close to concern. It was unlike Lucifer to show emotion at all.

Azrael let the strangeness of the situation roll down his shoulders. Getting his feathers ruffled because of a rare lucid moment in the ordinary chaos that was the fallen Morningstar would accomplish nothing. He inclined his head, gracefully taking the politically-correct compliment for what it was. "Some days are more difficult than others…today is one of those." The sadness of the frozen burial ground was enough to overwhelm most of the wary, watchful suspense clouding the angel's mood, and he took another look at the canvas splattered with death before turning away from it altogether. Atrocity was something one had to expect, no matter how sour truth could be.

A piece of sleek, obsidian shadow, the demon stepped over the feebly smoldering wreckage of a goat cart, approaching the place where the pale-haired angel stood, wreathed in the folds of a cloak, a deep purple scarf catching the glint of new light at his throat. With delicate distaste, Lucifer murmured, "rest assured; I have the numbers of those who spat on innocent life. They will better comprehend their crime when you deliver them to my tender care."

It was an odd moment; one thick with an unspoken understanding quite like camaraderie. It suddenly occurred to Azrael that he had had several similar moments in Lucifer's presence, both before and after his fall, and the revelation reminded him of a very important factor included in his calculated sum of assumptions.

There was no such thing as simple. Therefore, there could be no such thing as pure, undiluted evil. Lucifer himself had once preached of the fallbacks of a race given absolute freedom of will; that such a race would serve to be the end of everything balanced in existence, would destroy the foundations of creation. What had he known then that everyone else had failed to grasp? Could it possibly be that Lucifer's choice had been made by more than the empty selfishness of jealousy and pride? Why did he speak as though from the jaded eyes of someone resigned to work he would rather never have taken up?

The dark king uttered a quiet sigh, a sound like a spring breeze toying with the branches of a willow, and gently touched Azrael's shoulder with a gloved hand. When Azrael lifted his eyes to look at the face of the entity so commonly known as the Devil, Lucifer had gone, leaving the younger angel with the solitude to finish his business with the village and its people.

It took some time to shake off the unnerving after-affects of having a sane, genial snatch of conversation with the Morningstar, but the thoughts evoked from it were tucked securely away into pockets of his mind to be accessed later.

Sinking into the cool grasp of death's presence, he called softly to the spirits hiding in the crooks and corners in the remnants of structure, bidding them to come out. They were happy to come, knowing that he offered no harm, as so many of the enlightened religions tended to be, and flocked like a singular unit around him to be delivered to the afterlife. Even through death's painfully objective view, he recognized the head monk, the old man who had been so kind. The shadowy substance of the man's face – given some of its youth back by the graces of dying – lifted with a smile that spoke of an equal recognition.

Following the monk's lead, the people allowed the angel to guide them into the coolness of the Underworld and along its waters to the heavenly halls of judgment, where Sandalphon and Sariel awaited them. There they would be met, welcomed, and logged, then sent to Elysia where they would spend the rest of eternity. They would have their Nirvana.

Once he passed the crowd of souls through the gateway and into Sariel's capable hands, he returned to the mortal plain to see to the rest of his visitations for the day. None that followed were so terrible, or so eventful, despite the fact that one woman had been haunting the house where she had died for the better part of three days. That was where ghosts came from, spirits that he didn't get to right at the time of death. Not that it was important…she only gave him a bit of trouble. But regardless of the reality that it only took seconds of mortal time to complete each visit, he was wearied when they were done. Not only did he have the matter of Lucifer's moment of sanity plaguing his mind, along with the questions it piqued, but the steady trouble of Lilith's mystery illness weighed heavily on his heart.

On his final excursion into heaven, he padded down the arched hallways to his rooms and immediately reached for a crystal. Reaching through with the intent to hopefully catch Pandora at a good moment, he undid the clasp of his cloak and slung it across the back of a chair, tossing the glass sphere lightly in the air as he waited for a response. The soft, sleek scarf he kept loosely looped about his neck, as though the feel of it settled there was a comfort all by itself.

Pandora's voice was accented shamelessly with boredom when she answered, "yes?"

"Would you mind terribly if I asked you to return home for a time?" he inquired, crossing to the low, flat table stacked with stacks of paper. It had been tidied, likely by Cassiel when the guardian had last been working on the Iscariot Records project, but he doubted it would take long to dig up what he sought.

"_I _don't mind," Pandora chimed, sounding happy to be relived of field-duty wrought with the trails and tribulations of nothing. "Why? What's the problem?"

"Lilith has…taken ill," he said, describing in brief terms the symptoms of vomiting, paranoia, high body temperature and quickened pulse, and what he had tried to locate and define them.

After a moment of silent pondering, she clicked her tongue, obviously shaking her head as she did so. "I'll have to see her. I should be there by tonight, so bring her by any time. In the meantime, make sure she's getting enough nutrients and liquids so she doesn't dehydrate. Patient with vomiting tendencies don't like to eat, but they need to."

"Thank you."

"Oh, not at all," she replied with words filled to the brim with relief. The connection was ended with a small surge of silver fire and what sounded suspiciously like a shriek of happiness.

Settling down at the table, legs crossed before him, Azrael began rearranging stack after stack of papers, shuffling through folder after folder for the item he wanted. It was always there, whether he chose to give it attention or not, though it did seem to evade him whenever he was searching for it. It was just when he was approaching frustration that the photograph slipped from an empty folder and fluttered into his lap.

It wasn't actually a photograph, not by modern terms. But for a miniature painting crafted by magic, memory, and spelled paper, it was detailed and brilliant. The eight faces looked back at him from the imprint of the past, oblivious to what would happen in the all-to-near future, sparkling and beautiful and happy. The seven angels gathered about their creator, bedecked in finery from the two eldest to the two young twins seated primly at everyone's feet.

Lucifel and Uriel – proud and noble – stood at the back, garbed in shades of blue-adorned-white and red-adorned black respectively. Michael and Gabriel and Raphael kneeling, clustered about the center, adolescents just closing in on adulthood. They were muted compared to their elders, warm gold and green and silver, their smiles broader and far more open. At the forefront, posed with their heads together, were the twins; purple and blue, brilliant in their youth.

Iaheva, willowy and lovely and the very image of a gentle mother, sat in the center, enthroned by her chair of gilded pearl; her raiment gold and white and delicately decorated with rose-quartz gems. It complimented the hair piled in a crown of loose curls atop her head to spill down her back, the tresses a beautiful shade of petal pink. One fair hand rested in her lap. The other brushed the fingers Lucifel had rested against her half-bare shoulder. Yet for all the pain and hate and chaos that had passed between angel and creator only days after the memory had been imprinted, in neither face was there a trace of feeling to betray anything but calm serenity. Not a hint of strain. Iaheva's smile was as gracious and lighthearted as it ever was, and Lucifel looked peaceful and dreamy, not like he was short steps away from committing the most heinous crime in history.

Laying the picture flat on the table's surface, Azrael stared hard at it, hard; as though he could force it to give up its secrets should he compel it to. Which, of course, it didn't, and he was forced to tuck it away in favor of focusing on other matters. Still the questions pelted him, like the whispers of a conscience that refused to give up.

Just what had gone wrong, all those years ago?

Much more importantly, what was Lucifer up to?

* * *

Her stomach roiled the instant she tried to sit up. Gritting her teeth and combating the nausea that churned in her belly, she propped herself up against the wrought-iron headboard and took some steady breaths, all the while trying to remember what it was she'd been thinking about before she had fallen back asleep upon waking the first time. It had been something important…or she thought it had. With a sigh, Lilith had to admit that it was gone.

Hopeful that whatever it was might return to her mildly scrambled head sooner or later, she slowly shifted her weight to test the extent of the nausea, stretching arms and legs right down to fingers and toes. None of it seemed to jostle her…until she got overconfident and tried to stand. The rolling nastiness sloshed back and forth, dizzying and foul, sending her at a stumbling run to the door she knew must lead to a washroom. Yet once she got there, she faltered, panicked by the lack of a toilet to empty the bile into, hands clamped over her mouth in a desperate attempt to hold back the wave of sick.

…to no avail.

Into a decorative vase set at the edge of the sink-counter went the vomit, with her bent over its wide-lipped rim, arms braced against counter and wall to support the torso that tipped perilously beneath the heaving retches forcefully emptying her stomach. Twice she heaved, shuddering when there was simply nothing left to throw up. Then, once the worst of it ebbed away, she remained bent over the vase, disgusted and regretful. Ruining one of guardian's belongings was a plain wonderful way to start the day. The vase seemed to be made of smooth, gracefully-shaped alabaster painted with a subdued blue-gray that melded prettily with the slate-gray flagstone floor and white-tiled walls. The vomit was definitely not a nice touch.

What on earth was wrong with her? What was this thing inside her, making her feverish and shaky and sick? It wasn't anything normal, it wasn't something even an angelic mage could pinpoint…and that scared her. It scared her far more than she cared to think about.

A faint burning in her eyes joined the sour burn that singed her mouth and throat. A pair of frightened, frustrated tears slid from between her eyelashes to paint iridescent trails down her cheeks, sticking wayward strands of hair to flushed skin.

Cool hands brushed her hair back from her forehead, securing it away from her face the same time a cup of water for her to rinse her mouth was held out for her. She took it gladly with a trembling hand, rinsed, lifted her head slightly to the left, and spat into the sink, dearly wishing she had thought to do the same with the vomit. The cup was removed, refilled, and handed back, and she drank it all down…more to banish the taste than to combat the dehydration she knew she was already suffering. It was then that she turned to look up at Azrael, pale and plainly beside himself with worry.

It was useless to put a brave-face on, she knew it the moment she saw the comprehension in the eyes only barely tinted with pinkish-lavender in a sea of gray as he touched a gentle fingertip to a teary cheek. Thus, she didn't bother to falsify the moment, and allowed him to wipe her face with a damp washcloth conjured seemingly out of nowhere. "I'm ok," she croaked with a raw throat.

"You're not," he corrected softly, ignoring the wary uncertainty of her eyes, "but I appreciate your attempt to calm my concern."

Taking her hand, he led her back into the bedroom and, snatching the dressing robe of heavy black silk from the back of a graceful wooden chair, draped it across her shoulders. Despite the heat of her temperature, she felt cold, and somehow he picked up on it…though she had made a preference for a short-sleeved, knee-length nightgown to sleep in the night before. The garment draped about her as a song made to fabric might have, embracing her in warmth and softness. She slid her arms through the sleeves, though she had to shake them back for they were far too long for her, and wrapped it around herself as she sat on the edge of the bed and instinctively held out her arms for the tray Azrael was passing her.

On the tray was a shallow bowl of white glass filled with a milky-looking hot cereal. It was steaming gently, unlike the sliced, skinless apple plated with leaves of something green arranged beside it and directly below a tall, fluted glass of water. Touched by the gesture he'd made by bringing her breakfast though she was, she didn't think her stomach would be able to keep the food down.

"I don't think I can eat," she said hesitantly, not wanting to sound unappreciative, and tightened her grip around the tray in case he tried to take it back. Why, she wasn't sure.

Though it was thin, he smiled at her, and it felt like something lifted from her shoulders "Rice porridge with peppermint," he indicated the bowl, "will ease the nausea and enable you to eat something with nutritional value to keep you from getting lightheaded." The apple, no doubt, skinned so it would be easier to digest, even if it did take away from said nutritional value. The water was to keep her hydrated.

Acquiescing with a nod, Lilith picked up her spoon and dug in while Azrael kept a careful eye on her. He changed out of heavier winter clothes in favor of a pale blue t-shirt and a pair of rather nondescript black pants, but she noticed him carefully fold the scarf she'd crocheted for him and tuck it into a safe place in his wardrobe. Spooning porridge into her mouth after blowing softly to cool it, she was met with the iced, sweet taste of peppermint. It dissolved into her throat, easing the raw ache in the sensitive flesh with a cooling spread of warmth…paradoxical as it might have seemed. The medicinal touch of the peppermint spread from her tongue as she tentatively swallowed, and then she took another bite once she was sure her stomach had no complaints to voice.

She was sinking her teeth into a slice of apple as Azrael reached around the side of the wardrobe and bent to pick up a black poly-woven instrument case. It was a modern thing, which was a little surprising, and had a nondescript and long, rectangular shape so she couldn't tell exactly what it was. He settled in the chair at an angle across from her, laying the case upon his lap.

"I will take you to see Pandora in a few hours," he told her. He didn't say why…because he didn't need to. Pandora would be searching her, yet again, for the cause of her mystery illness.

Lilith finished her apple sliver and selected another. She had met the red-haired demoness once before and though the encounter had been nothing if not brief, from what she could tell, the healer was of the good-hearted sort. Pandora had patched Azrael up when he'd been rather seriously injured, had trusted Lilith to take care of him in her own place, and she had been kind-mannered and polite. Harboring no reservations more negative than a light anxiety more associated with her ailment than another meeting with the lady demon, Lilith genuinely hoped the healer could figure out what was going on inside her body. Maybe then her guardian would be truly calm again.

It wasn't hard to spot the worry in the angel seated across from her. He wasn't really bothering to conceal it for one thing, and for another, next to the perilously drab shade of his eyes, his fingers were very faintly clumsy against the brass clasps of the case. With a silent sigh, she took up her spoon once more and ate some more porridge, at something of a loss of what to say to him that wouldn't be useless or falsely comforting.

Looking up a moment later, she saw that from the case her guardian had extracted a violin of a lovely, burnished red wood riddled with ebony accents. He held it so gently, as though it were made of delicate porcelain, bow in one hand and tuning the beautiful instrument's strings with the other; he narrowed his concentration to the pitch of first one string and then the other three. He glanced up mid-swing of the instrument up to the flat of his shoulder and stilled. "Do you mind if I play?" he asked, "it helps me relax."

"Of course," she smiled, recalling the few occasions when she had heard him sing and the sheer glory of it, and knowing perfectly well his ulterior motive was to distract her. "I'd love to hear…" What better way to pass the time until the hour of potential reckoning?

Settling the violin against the crook of his shoulder and resting his chin against the smooth wood, he pondered for a moment, not entirely certain what notes to play, and his eyes lit upon her face. Despite the mouth full of porridge, whatever he saw there made his features soften, gentle, and as he let the bow slide across the strings, the sounds that rose from the friction beneath his fingertips was sweeter even than honey. His eyes drifted closed, his spine curving lightly with the passion of the music he pulled from the strings.

And as she watched him play to the image of her in his mind, wishing she could cross the floor that spread between them and kiss him until he could think of nothing else, she sat, motionless, terrified that maybe Pandora wouldn't know the problem either. What then? Would she waste away – suffer her life being sucked slowly out of her until she simply was no more? Surely, surely such a thing couldn't happen. If such music could exist, so, too, could a miracle, God willing.

Lilith hoped with all her being that God's will was with her.

* * *

The medic wing was constructed of the same shiny black stone blocks as the rest of the realm's dwelling quarters were, yet the addition of wide, ribbon-hemmed tapestries to cover up at least some of the ominous blackness did manage to ease some of the closed-in feeling the material caused. They were silk, hand-painted with scenes of meadows filled with flowers, quiet forests and streams trickling over multicolored stones. Nature views, as they always seemed to, served the purpose of soothing the mind made restless by the imminent knowing of why it was there.

Shuffling in slippers duplicated from the ones she had at home (right down to the inner layer of fuzz worn down to shape to her feet); Lilith entered the waiting room with all the confidence of a mouse. She had put on a pair of soft gray slacks with a hem that folded down around her hips and a thin t-shirt to better suit being prodded and poked by a doctor, but the comfortable clothed didn't do much to truly comfort her insides, wringing themselves into knots as they were. Azrael followed close behind her, hand gentle at the small of her back as he guided her toward a stiffly-upholstered chair to wait Pandora's beckon.

She sat, uneasily, on the edge of the chair as he slid into the one beside her and placed a hand on her knee. "Have no fear," he said softly, "Pandora is a friend and a good healer."

"I'm not afraid," she retorted defensively, "just nervous. I'm not a fan of doctors."

With a bemused sort of grin, he kissed her temple and murmured, "she is a _healer_, not a doctor."

Lilith's baleful glance proved that she didn't share the joke. "What's the difference?"

At that moment, the inner door swung open and the slim, red-headed pixie of a demon-woman stepped into the threshold, looking about as threatening as a butterfly. Adopting a downright brilliant smile for the sake of her audience, Pandora greeted her with a sing-song tone, "hello, Miss Lilith!" and gave her a jaunty sort of wave. It was almost impossible to be intimidated after that. "Hello to you too, Azrael," she said, smiling energetically at the angel, who smiled (a little wearily) back.

"Hello, Pandora," he returned politely, as though he couldn't quite keep up with her energy. "How was your passage?"

"Oh, you know. Somewhat draining and dull, but good grief, I am _glad_ to be out of there."

Certainly, Pandora didn't much look like any kind of doctor Lilith had ever seen. This was not to say that no human doctors could prance around in a puff-sleeved white blouse and black vest combined with a pair of pants that looked like they were modeled after a Frankenstein creation. There could be a human doctor who would think slacks sewn together out of patches of fabric in varying shades of reds and flaming oranges to be quite chic. But the edgy look was strangely reassuring.

Azrael was nodding in reply to something the demoness was saying. "I did not expect much of a flux in activity with my absence, but I admit it is disheartening to hear things are remaining the same."

Pandora huffed. "Tell me about it. I wish there'd be some action already."

The angel angled his pale blond head back and laughed. The sound of it was musical and rich, lightly flavorful and reminiscent of a summer day with warm sun, cool water and shade beneath leafy trees. It snared Lilith's attention without effort, simply with the belling notes and the beautiful smile spread across his lips. Her eyes rested on him with a fondness that reached deeper than there were words for, loving him merely for the way his laughter could make her feel at home even in a strange place such as the infirmary. Yet even this moment couldn't last forever.

With a flip of her violently red chin-length hair, Pandora beckoned to the girl. "Come on in," she said, "and we'll get started." Lilith got up from her chair, received one last squeeze to the knee from Azrael, who had decided to wait patiently outside, and headed back.

The room bore a certain resemblance to a modern clinic's might, with its clean, scrubbed surfaces, examining table, and sparse decorating. It lacked the homey touches of cutesy posters about covering one's nose and mouth during a cough or sneeze and washing one's hands, and there was no rack of magazines to distract a waiting patient. Instead, the three walls to either side and across from the door were lined with counters at roughly hip-level, lined and stacked with bins and boxes and containers of supplies.

While heavily reminiscent of Azrael's workroom, the counter was laid in a fashion much more along the lines of sensible order and didn't make her hands twitch with the urge to tidy. Its walls were constructed of a paler, almost creamy-white stone instead of the rest of the realm's iridescent black. In the place of the pills and needles and blood-pressure tools associated with mortal medicine, there were herbs in packets, vialed liquids and cloth padding…which was perhaps part of the apparently crucial difference between the practices of doctors and healers.

She stood, a little awkwardly, to one side of the doorway while Pandora conferred with her guardian in muted voices. But she didn't have to wait long, for soon Pandora had entered and closed the door behind her with a neat snap. Ignoring the examination table completely, she crossed the floor to a straight-backed chair angled into a niche at the counter not piled with stored supplies, ushering Lilith along to a second chair, this one apparently carved out of the room's foundation-material. Once seated, the brunette shyly looked up at the red-haired woman who was watching her with a small smile.

"I know we didn't really meet properly," Pandora admitted, and she looked rather sorry about that, which was a sentiment Lilith shared, despite her surprise at its presence on the other female's face. "So let's start again—" Thrusting out a fine-boned hand decorated with an assortment of pretty silver (index, middle, and pinky fingers of the right hand; thumb and middle fingers of the left), the demoness offered a bright grin and promptly introduced herself. "I'm Pandora; ex-denizen of the host of Ishim, guardian angel, and patron of hedgewitches and midwives…currently founder of the hellish medical unit and open supporter of heaven."

Finding it exceedingly difficult to maintain a semblance of anxiety when she found that she rather liked the woman, regardless of demon-status, Lilith returned the smile and grasped the proffered hand. Pandora's grip was firm, but warmly cordial and combined with her friendly smile, she seemed absolutely charming. "That's certainly a mouthful," she remarked, a little bemused by the speech of identity, which she figured tended to run a little longer with immortals.

It wasn't like they could just walk up and say: "hi there, I'm Deborah. I'm a dental assistant and a part-time mom." Things in the holy and unholy world were just a bit more complex than that.

Giggling somewhat sheepishly, the redhead conceded with a nod. "Yeah…suffice it to say, I'm a healer and a friend." Lilith gave way to a small, somewhat tentative giggle of her own, which pleased the other female immensely. With the tangible sound of minor relaxation, the medic settled herself more comfortably in her chair, drew a short roll of parchment and a red-quill pen toward her and began scribbling some notes. "So, angel boy tells me you've been suffering some acute paranoia and unusual vomiting along with heightened body temperature and a bloodbeat—excuse me—pulse that cycles irregularly between too slow and too rapid…that sound about right?"

"Paranoia?" Lilith wracked her brains for a time when she had shown increased paranoia around her guardian and coming up dry. Oh, except that he'd mentioned something about it when he'd shown up in her bathroom, but he hadn't made it seem like such a big deal. "I don't think that's related," she piped up, "because it's not a consistent symptom. I always get a little weird after the winter holidays, and it went away right after I started farfing." She had to say, she was feeling rather proud of herself and that assessment.

Pandora's delicate snort of amusement for the sake of Lilith's alternate term for the action of throwing up was subdued by a quiet cough, though it didn't quite deter the sparkle from the fine-boned female's silvery gray eyes. "No chills or pain?"

"Nope."

"All right, then," she made a flourish out of crossing out the unaffecting term from the list, then studied it for a few moments. "Is there anything else? Anything unusual you've been noticing or strange feelings?"

"Worth mentioning, no," Lilith admitted with a small shrug, feeling put on the spot. This was the part she didn't like about visiting doctors, her inability to cope with needing to pull things out of the air whilst feeling pressured. "Not really."

"Even if it doesn't seem worth mentioning," the redhead coaxed, "small things can sometimes turn out to have a big impact in the overall."

She did have a point. Thus, Lilith made the effort to thoroughly scan through the workings of her body for the past week or so, in an attempt to ferret out anything suspicious or remotely insignificantly unusual. It took her a while; mainly due to an unpleasant lack of significant remembrance of…much of anything, but she wracked her brains and finally came up with a small repertoire. "Well, I do remember waking up a few times and feeling dizzy when I'd already been standing up. I don't get headaches often either, and I've been having them more frequently since the vomiting started. Oh, and I've been having this weird, chronic ache in my chest." She paused, "do you think that's significant?"

Looking at Pandora, she saw the light to the healer's silvery eyes change from attentive and analytical to surprise in a shocking instant. "Maybe…" The redhead peered back down at her parchment list and jotted down the new symptoms, after which she took a good, long look at them. She was both quiet and motionless for a long moment. So long, in fact that it began to cause her patient some serious anxiety.

"It is bad?" Lilith asked; her throat tight with a lump she hadn't known was there until trying to speak.

"Let me just," Pandora rose got to her feet and spread a clean white sheet over the examining table's metallic surface, "have you lie down on this for a second."

Trying desperately not to allow herself showcase that her insides were tying themselves into liberal knots with subdued terror – just by imagining what horrible illness she had undoubtedly contracted – Lilith shuffled over to the table, boosted herself up, and lay back on the table. The startling amount of cushioning that met her back and head in the place of hard metal couldn't even distract her entirely. Dear God, she must be really, really sick. Maybe this was something one of her parents had had…something she never knew about. Maybe it wasn't curable now that she was an immortal hybrid.

Pandora's hands were warm when she lifted Lilith's shirt and laid them against the girl's bare belly. They rested flat against the skin, fingers pressing down, gingerly at first until she recognized there was no sign of pain, and a little more firmly a few more times; mapping the expanse of Lilith's stomach. "Ok," she said finally, after what had felt like forever, and tugged the shirt back down. "You can sit up now."

Lilith sat, unconsciously hugging her own abdomen with arms that were trembling. "What is it?" She questioned, feeling bad for pestering, but unable to help it. "Do you know what it is?"

The redhead pulled her chair over to the side of the table and sat down beside the place where Lilith's legs hung over the side. Folding her hands, the medic looked directly into Lilith's eyes and asked her own steady question. "Do you remember when you had your last period?"

Undeniably stumped, Lilith blinked. "Why—?"

"Humor me?" Pandora smiled.

"Um…" She thought about it, trying to remember the last time she'd gone about the business of changing panty-liners and lower-tummy aches. It wasn't something she usually had to recall specifically, so at first it was difficult. But then she remembered talking with Azrael about it; how she had told him she didn't think him depraved as he seemed to view himself, and how she had curled up in the chair next to him and fallen asleep with her head tucked against his chest.

And then it hit her.

It hit her like a wrecking ball right in the gut.

"November…" she whispered, quietly enough so that Pandora actually leaned forward to better hear. "My last was…November. I'm two months late—"

* * *

The door opened at long last, and Azrael looked up from the book he had summoned from his chambers to occupy his mind and keep it from wandering to places he didn't want it to go. His heart leapt, as it always did upon seeing his ward, a pleasurable thump of contentedness in his chest, as if he needed to be reminded how very much in love he was with her. Yet upon seeing the look on his Lilith's face – blankly awed and glassy-eyed – his affection swapped places with liberal concern so quickly that it was almost a physical feeling. She looked dazed, like she had been hit too hard in the head and had lost her bearing, but he could tell with a quick scan that she was physically unchanged…and emotionally static.

Setting down his book, he stood and held his hands out to her, willing her closer. "What is it? What did she find?"

With what seemed a tremendous effort, Lilith lifted her hands to take the ones offered to her. They were so small compared to his, soft and pale and slender, resting there in his palms, his fingers curling warm and gentle around them. She looked so very delicate, lost in her own mind, standing there in her just slightly too-big shirt and fluffy-edged slippers, her hair loosely braided and tucked over her shoulder. He wanted to hold her in his arms and whisper comfort to her, sing good things into her skin, make her feel strong and well…but he couldn't just yet.

"Lilith...?"

She lifted those lovely green eyes to meet his gaze, eyes so deep with such boundless passion and poise, now drawn with such a drowned sort of stunned emptiness that it scared him. But only for a moment was he allowed to feel fear for his ward. Before her lips parted and her voice rose to form words he had never – ever in his wildest dreaming – imagined he would hear. "I'm pregnant."

At first he wasn't sure what he'd heard, and he ran through the sounds that she had uttered over and over against until his analytical mind could no longer question their meaning. Then he wondered if he had to sit down, because he felt as drunken and lightheaded as though he was the one that had been clobbered upside the skull. "You're—" he murmured, barely a sound in the private quiet of the waiting room, hushed with the sheer awe of bewilderment. "But that's not possible…"

She shook her head, very slowly. "I am." Insistence was difficult for her, her voice and presence was so diminished, but she managed it somehow.

And, of course, he had no choice but to believe it. In the world of the healers, with their complicated standards and strict morals, Pandora was second only to Raphael; this left very little margin of error, and Pandora would never give an answer like this one unless she was absolutely certain. That meant…

_Lilith_ was _with child_.

It hardly seemed real, yet it had to be. All the symptoms fit: the morning vomiting, the temperature fluctuations, the pulse…altered not because it was rapid, but because he was hearing the beginning echoes of a second, a premonition mirrored by the spirit energy. There had never been a child conceived between an angel and a mortal before – not once. Between demons and damned souls, occasionally, and once or twice between the fallen and a living human, but even that was rare. Immortals just didn't conceive well, if they did at all.

Azrael loved children; for their innocence and their zest for life, the way they devoted themselves to what they did. He loved their joy and their energy, their excitement, but he had always done so from afar because he had known from the time he could understand such things that he would never have children of his own. True, he had added to the fostering of one or two, cared for the occasional orphan in need, and he had cared for Lilith as a ward…but it wasn't the same thing. He hadn't expected such a thing where Lilith was concerned, had never hoped for it out of certainty that it could never happen.

But as she stood before him, Pandora's diagnosis on her tongue, he could not contest it. Lilith, his beautiful charge and lover was carrying his child. It was an honest to God miracle. An overwhelming wave of joy flooded him, mind and soul, enhancing the drunken shock to a state of euphoria beyond feasible description. With a muted cry he seized Lilith about the waist and swung her about, laughter pouring from him like honeyed music.

She looked down at him with eyes dark in her pale face, taking in the undiluted happiness flowing through his presence, surging through his aura as vibrant as electricity. Warmth squeezed her heart to see him so happy. And yet…

He set her down, his chin smoothing against the part of her hair as he drew back to look at her. His wide smile dimmed, his eyes, momentarily blushing with pure, blazing violet, paling with sudden attention to her less than enthusiastic mood. Touching her cheek with a tender hand he asked her even before he voiced it with words. "You are unhappy…" he murmured, and the way he said it gave way to an incredible, aching sorrow. For a moment she could see into his emotional range, feel the conflict between the thrilling excitement of prospective fatherhood and the horrible guilt of putting her in a position that she didn't want to be.

More than anyone else alive, he knew how much she disliked the idea of childbirth. Ever since her middle school sexual education class, when the instructors had forced their students to watch a video recording of a woman giving birth, she had been consumed with a fear of it that ran deeper and colder than her terror of men. All of that blood, the woman's screams and evident pain; it had worked itself into her mind to a level impossible to get out. She liked children too, almost as much as he did, though she was shy around them. But having them was a very different story. The knowledge of it, the understanding that crossed his lovely face and that it meant he had, with his own careless assumption, thrown her head-first into such a situation…it devastated him. And for her, it was heartbreaking to watch.

She took hold of his hand, one large, slender hand cradled in both of her own. Downcast though her eyes might have been; her voice was steady, without falter or uncertainty as she spoke to him. "Alice's mom always said I was irrational about being afraid of childbirth," she said timidly, "she said it's silly to fear something so natural, how her mother had four children without even an aspirin."

Azrael opened his mouth to speak, and she hushed him with one hand laid against his chest.

"It still scares the bajesus out of me," she admitted, "and I don't think I could do it without a good deal more than an aspirin, but it can't be something that I run away from. Not when nature's so bluntly telling me otherwise." Beryl green eyes gazed up at him once again, and this time he could see the tears glistening at their edges.

His fingers brushed a feather-thin line down her temple and jaw to her chin, the essence of gentleness as he read the shaky determination growing steadily sturdier with every moment that passed them by. Alongside it, the sweet, devoted flutter of the love for him that served as the foundation for her decision to keep the child still no more than a whisper inside her. "So…" he began softly, "you're _happy_?"

For the first time since stepping beck through the infirmary door her rosy lips curved with a smile. Her laughter trickled over him like spring-water, the relieving rain after a hard wind, wild and heavy with feeling. A tear slid down her cheek as she braced her hands against his shoulders and stood on her toes to press her mouth to his, kissing him so sweetly that he could have never felt anything else for eternity and remain perfectly content. "I'm going to have _your baby,_" she whispered to him, wrapped in his arms and filling her hands with the silvery white feathers at the nape of his neck. "Of _course_ I'm happy!"

Exquisite face brilliant with the light of love and of joy, he returned her smile, lifted her up, and kissed her again – kissed her until her breath came ragged alongside her laughter – reveling in the knowledge that he, an angel, was going to be a father. And this beautiful woman whom he loved so deeply was now his partner in such an intimate way he had never dared to dream.

From where she stood, mostly hidden behind the edge of the door to the infirmary, Pandora looked on as the couple shared their moment of pure, consummate elation. Her smile was affectionate, happy for their joy and for the miracle of an angelic child; but it was also edged with the waver of someone troubled. Her memory hearkened back to a time long since turned to dust-choked history, when the Grail had made the prophecy of the come of the true Messiahs at the disgraceful last supper of Christ; an age that would be heralded by the birth of impossible blood. Impossible blood defined perfectly by the union of an angel and a human woman.

She wouldn't interrupt their revelry for anything in the world, but Pandora knew – as many knew – that the coming of a true, God-blessed Messiah would not only bring about a new age in the relationship between heaven and earth, but in the warfare between heaven and hell. She knew then, the war that had started with the signs of a false-alarm would not be ending without getting much, much worse.

* * *

**Oh man...first, may I just apologize for how long of a wait it's been? Good effing jesus. I'm so sorry, guys, it's been a heck of a few months. A lot of psycho-emotional bullcrap and then our computer died and we had to get a new one. Blergh. However, I hope the length does a little to make up for it.**

**I have been plotting the last half of this chapter for almost three years now. And I have to say that, as a whole, I am super proud of it. I know some people aren't in to the pregnancy/child in the story, but as much as I've tried, I just can't bring myself to stay away from it because of the ground it covers plot-wise and story-point-wise. This is not - I repeat - NOT going to be your typical pregancy/child-involved story following this point, I can promise you that. The overall feel of the story is not going to change, though I'm sure most of you recognize that the main plot is no longer focused on Azrael+Lilith sexual tension and angst, though there's going to be plenty more of that...as well as a LOT more relationship growth, because we have to remember they haven't been an item for very long. And as typical OC-ish heroine as it seems for her to be astonishingly capable of conceiving with an angel, there are reasons for it. I hinted at one of them, but more on that later. Most importantly: CONGRATS to those who guessed it, not that I made it uberly difficult to guess that she was preggers, but still. :D**

**Also, I hadn't planned on bringing Lucifer in for such detailed page-time nearly so soon. That part started out as time for Azrael to be broody and angsty about human nature and think deep thoughts, but mainly to add some more detail into how his "job" functions. To clarify, unless he's there while the human dies, the soul has to wait around for him to come and harvest (for lack of a better term) said soul to bring it through the underworld and to its final resting place...hence the concept of ghosts, for those he doesn't get to right away. Also, death and time walk hand-in-hand, so he actually slows time way way the heck down while he's working, so he can get to all the human deaths that occur during a single day. Handy, eh? **

**But anyway...Lucifer. He is such a complicated character. I've only just made a scratch in the surface of him yet. Truth be told, I was still watery on my overall intimate knowledge of my own character's identity and workings until I wrote this piece on a whim that I was half-certain I'd delete. Very happy whim. Oh! We also got a brief snippet of God! X3 Yus, she's a pink-haired woman...most of the time. Humor me!**

**I also made lots of references: to alchemy and transmutation circles and messiahs and the grail, etc and so forth. I won't waste your time with explanations now, just know that more will come on these in time. **

**And so, I shall leave you here until next time. Which I seriously hope will be sooner, but I can't promise, unfortunately. PLEASE take a moment to review and make my day brighter! **

**All my love; thank you for your patience.**


	7. Blackbird Saints

**Chapter 7: Blackbird Saints**

Recommended Listening: "Bill's Entrance," "Bill and Sookie's Reunion," "Love Theme" and  
"Take Me Home (featuring Lisbeth Scott)" by Nathan Barr [from True Blood]

* * *

From the eye with no attachment to the young woman seated on the Persian rug spread across the flagstone floor, she would have beguiled an admiring look. Surrounded by the pooling of the oversized black silk dressing robe draped across her shoulders, she was delicate, almost doll-like with her large green eyes and soft, cream-white skin. Pretty, yes, delicate too, and ordinary in many ways. But to an untrained eye, any one person was an ordinary one. An untrained eye couldn't see the soul of a lioness in a plain, everyday librarian-ballerina. And he could. At least when it came to this particular example of a rare species.

That made it sound all too technical and unattached, which was definitely not a proper way to go about describing it…or her. A poet's flowery, glitter-gilt words would have been much more fitting for the way he felt for the woman seated before his armchair.

Her dark hair had been tied in a loose tail, which curled and fell over her shoulder and neck to keep it out of the way as she ate from the tray settled on the rug beside her, on the side closest to the fire crackling and popping in the hearth, casting everything it touched with a warm, orangey glow. And with her there, making the luminance so much brighter, he could have been witnessing a sunset in Elysia. The warmth from her back pressed into his knees, one hand a gentle pressure on the curve of his ankle while the other dipped a piece of warm bread into a cool yogurt sauce and brought it to her mouth.

The baked pita-like flatbread with its sauce was laid out in a circular pattern like an opened flower. This was accompanied by a dish of diced pieces from various melons and nectarine bathed in a rum and honey marinade, a skewer of roasted lamb and eggplant seasoned with pepper and garlic, and a short pitcher of a frothy coconut drink that Pandora swore by for upset stomachs. Light, Mediterranean food; perfect for a touchy tummy, and full of nutrients for Lilith and the baby.

He had ordered food for her during his wait in the room outside the medical office, knowing full well that she would need to eat more than the rice porridge and apple that he'd coaxed into her if she was to avoid any further fainting spells. He had not foreseen, however, just how very important the light supper tray sent to his rooms would prove to be. Proper nutrition was vital for a human baby, let alone a baby of a two-blooded parentage.

Azrael's eyes were soft as they rested on the crown of his ward's head and followed the arcing curve of her neck down to the slope of her shoulders. Beautiful for all her human imperfection, made all the more glorious for the gift of immortality that set her skin and eyes alight, gave such a deep, harmonious shimmer to her hair. It was something she had always had – a lovely face and a light, graceful build – the gifting only enhanced what was already there, made it glow with something just a little more…magical. It was magic alone that truly escaped humanity. But it was a significant lack for someone who knew its touch so well.

He had thought it would be this gift, his act of flushing her inactive, empty chakra veins – long-since dried out by the end of childhood, when the magic in the world ceased to exist to blind, burnt-out eyes – with the essence that made him who he was that would bind her to him, irrevocably and forever. Magic was the source of all life, apart from will, and it was magic (in all its twisting, varying shapes and forms) that altered with the will and framework of a being to become a living thing. But he had managed to find something that would weave the fibers of his presence still more tightly around her heart.

She sighed, a shallow exhale of breath that was more an echo of a silent thought than a means with which to break the comfortable silence. It had been unintentional, but that didn't mean he couldn't trace the emotional weight behind it. He felt a small tinge of guilt plague him deep inside, displeased that, in his own happiness, he had been neglecting to be attentive to his ward's very openly known discomfort with some pieces of the imminent future.

The palm of his hand settled on the slight curve of her shoulder, feeling the warmth that flowed up to meet the gesture intended to comfort from beneath the silk of his dressing robe. While she made to speak, she touched him gently, acknowledging the contact by brushing her fingers against his knuckles. "Is it the birthing that worries you?" he asked her softly, his very words a drop of honey smoothed against the silk of a rose petal.

He felt her still in surprise, spoonful of melon halfway to her mouth. "A little…" Yet her voice trailed to a wavering whisper, uncertainty melded with discomfort and a little guilt of her own.

Lilith knew perfectly well how thrilled he was to have discovered her mystery ailment was truthfully the typical pains of an unborn child to its mother's body, so thrilled that he had had a smile on his face almost from the moment she had told him until that very moment. She hated to be the one to burst that calm, quiet bubble of happiness. It made her feel whiny to cry at him about every little thing…but she also knew that it was far better to talk to him than to sulk and bottle up all her worries. She considered herself fortunate to have a partner who genuinely wanted her to be happy about it too.

"Mostly, I think what worries me is there haven't been any other half-angel babies…" she tried to swallow the lump that had appeared out of nowhere, tight and solid in her throat. "What if it isn't like a normal pregnancy? What if something happens? What if I—" She couldn't even put words to the awful fear of miscarriage.

Sarah had gotten pregnant once by a boy that had been in their graduating class, which had been bad enough for its own sake, but then she had lost the baby…just when she'd been about to accept the new change to her life. It had wounded the redhead deeply emotionally and psychologically, even more so that the event had made her realize just how much she really wanted children. Lilith hadn't been able to imagine the drive to give birth, regardless of how sweet little bitty humans could often be. Yet she had stood by her friend in Sarah's moment of need, offering unconditional support and empathy to help her get through. The terror that seized her now, when she tried to picture what she would do if she woke up some morning after this to find herself bleeding, losing the baby her warden already so clearly treasured…

She couldn't stand to think about it.

Unknowingly, her hand had strayed to the still shallow curve of her stomach, gingerly resting there, almost as if she hoped she might be able to feel the life there if she strained hard enough. And as he usually did, her angel followed her train of thought nearly better than she had herself. He bent at the waist, reaching with gentle hands to grasp her delicate wrists and guided her hands away from their present activity of fretful smoothing. "None of that, now," he chided softly, and the subtle, tiny thread of compulsion that slid from the sound of his voice to wrap steadily around the stem of her worrying eased her mind away from the images that tried to turn her into an anxious wreck. "There is nothing to be afraid of. You are a healthy young woman with every capability to go through pregnancy and childbirth without any setbacks, and you have the patron of midwifery for your doctor."

Yet despite his own words of comfort, she had a very valid point folded amid her concerns. The altogether newness of an angel-human coupling was not a very big deal; all things considered, there was more good to it than bad. However, Lilith was delicate in ways other than her psychological structure when it came to the idea of childbirth. She was narrower in the hips than was ideal, a point that Pandora hadn't needed to point out to him, though the medic had taken the trouble anyhow. The most important was that Lilith carried a baby that had a great chance of inheriting a very strong source of _Manath_…of personal magic that, when housed in an infant that would most likely develop as a human baby would be vastly uncontrollable. Children were unstable keepers of great gifts – it was why no angel had every stayed one long, combined with the hyper-growth of immortal kind.

He would never have said so out loud, but the risk such a child posed to Lilith concerned him more than any of the other possible factors or worries combined. A baby with even a fraction of his magical strength and without the mental stability to control it could very well poison its mother's blood by overflowing it with a constant rhythm of power-surges it couldn't know to avoid. It could stop her heart with one of those very same surges, so completely that not even its angel father could call her back to living. It could even, when it came close enough to term, cause her belly to burst in its enthusiasm to be free of her. None of which he would be making known to her, considering she was afraid enough as it was.

All of those were unlikely, but Azrael wouldn't take any chances and inadvertently allow any of them to happen. He would have to do some research…but he had some ideas on how to bind the child's power, should it choose to present itself, to ensure her safety. It was just one more thing added to his growing list of things to look up in a score of old books.

All the same, he pressed a kiss to the part of his ward's dark hair and told her: "you will be just fine."

Lilith's lovely green eyes caught the orange of the firelight, enriching the highlights within them to a depth that normally went unseen. She gave him a tiny smile of gratitude and let his reassurance sink into her bones without comment. Small, slender fingers squeezed his hand; the only acknowledgement he required to know that she had taken his words to heart. The slip of magic had merely helped to calm her.

"You know what's really worrying?" She had turned again, taking the dish of melony-nectarine-goodness in one cupped palm and spoon in the other, yet she kept the side of her face to him, so that he could see her profile. "My great and powerful guardian angel couldn't see that his charge was pregnant after scanning her several times." She giggled. "Proof that you're still a typical man underneath the wings."

A single white-blond eyebrow curved with a mild kind of bemusement. "I confess; the idea had not crossed my mind," he admitted with a tragic lilt to his tone. "I seem to owe you a teaspoon of blood."

She snorted. "And what on earth would I want with your blood?"

He smiled, reaching forward to cup her chin in one graceful white hand to draw her face close as he leaned forward. "A kiss instead?" was his posed compromise, and one she gladly accepted. She set down her partially-eaten melon and shifted to face him, swathed in black silk. His clothing was much simpler, thin black slacks and an open shirt of a heather-gray shade that suited his eyes and hair, and allowed her to appreciate the curvature of his chest and the fine gold chain that looped around his throat. Resting her soft hands against his cotton-sheathed thighs, she tilted her face upward to offer him her mouth.

She was only slightly surprised to discover his lips were warm even before she passed her heat to him, rather than the marble chill he usually had with thanks to an angelic blood temperature. It wasn't something she dwelled on for very long, though; as he let his fingers roam along her jaw and into her hair to tangle and twine about the dark strands held prisoner by the elastic band. Sweetly and tenderly, he kissed her with a simple, attentive grace that made her fingers curl into the fabric above his knees and her breath come in an airy sigh of pleasure. The kind of kiss that ended much too quickly.

Her disappointment was evident when he pulled away from her to give a wavering exhale – he couldn't possibly have neglected to feel it – yet it was an emotion he acted upon. There was no passion-warmed hand to wrap around the back of her neck and pull her back to the grip of a plundering mouth, no lips to trace the edge of her chin and follow the line of her throat. There was nothing more than the smile of someone who loved her, but wasn't feeling the energy that would lead him to toss her over his shoulder like a sack of flower petals and haul her off to bed. Which only really meant that he was tired, emotionally strained, and simply not in the mood.

While she wasn't about to bombard him with questions about how he was feeling, she didn't fail to notice the way one of his hands smoothed over the left side of his chest, as though something there ached or felt an unusual chill. The significance of the gesture, unconscious though it was, didn't escape her. But she decided to let the matter rest. She had learned by now that some things were better left unsaid until necessity made them important. Thus, she figured a change in subject was called for. Besides, there was something she needed to ask him.

Scooping up the remnants of her dinner, she demanded he alter his attention to center on her instead of whatever was pressing so heavily on his mind by settling herself on his lap. He took it in easy stride, neither startled nor shaken by her sudden intrusion into his personal space; in fact, he took the opportunity to drape his arm across her hips, which was an open statement of affectionate approval. "I know you brought me here earlier than was probably necessary since we thought I was sick," she took a bite of rum-honeyed nectarine. "But how long do I need to stay? And after I go back, how long do I have before I have to come here again? _Oh,_ not that I don't like being here with you—"

Azrael's expression didn't change. Like a stone, smooth, white and motionless, he said nothing – did nothing – even as her words of reassurance faded with the steam she used to make them. He didn't have to say anything for her to realize she had said something that had made him uncomfortable, driving the pregnancy-induced cheer right out the window. The subtle tightening of his grip at her left hip told her a story beyond what the other signals might have hinted.

"You have a life on the mortal plain," he told her quietly, his voice carefully guarded and shallow. "I am not against you living that life." Which was true. Azrael had known from the beginning that he could never tear her by the roots from her place in the world that had nurtured her from birth. It was just…when put like that – as she just had – he was forced to wonder whether or not he had unintentionally trapped her there, in a place that echoed with screams of the damned.

The idea did not suit him very well, nor did it sit lightly on a conscience already trying vainly to recover from the colossal blow of having inadvertently manipulating her into accepting the burden of immortality. And it was a burden, make no mistake. Perhaps she didn't quite see it that way just yet, but some day she would…and it would be a horrible day for both of them.

Immortality for a hybrid couldn't be anything but a curse fabricated entirely by the long-ago decided fact that unapproved conversion caused an automatic black ribbon to be pinned on the subject's soul. Not only did that ribbon, that one little mark, make certain the new hybrid would never see the gates of heaven, or what lay beyond, but it shifted the balance of death's touch. Were she to die, not even he – Death – could save her. It was more than the long-term negatives that made her fate so awful. Her spiritual energy having not been made to withstand that forever of eternity, she had to be pulled from her life, her work, and her friends every so often to return to hell, a place where even those who lived there comfortably felt the touches of despair. And it was because of him.

Perhaps not today, or even tomorrow, but there would come a day when Lilith would come to realize just how much she was missing because of what he had done. And she would undoubtedly hate him for it.

The angel resettled her weight like one might adjust the pillow on one's lap (he seemed just that unaffected by it), and addressed her inquiry. "You ask a good question," he told her slowly, "and the best answer I can give I a fairly useless one. It entirely depends on how fast it takes your body to go through energy. I would harbor an estimation at about three to four months, but as you are with child, perhaps a little less than that."

Though a little concerned with his sudden, morose turn in mood, she nodded. "So I take it you're going to be keeping tabs on me and dropping by every so often to take me back here and thus and such?"

Something about the way she said it, or perhaps more because afterwards she pursed her lips around the straw in her drink, the glass held between hands dwarfed by folds of black silk, coaxed a smile from him. She felt it against her shoulder blade, just as she felt his fingers ease upon her skin. "And thus and such," he agreed solemnly.

"Ok, good," she chirped, grabbing hold of the positive lift in his demeanor and running headlong into the horizon with it. "That means I can do all the stuff I have to get done for the wedding."

"Wedding?" Azrael repeated with a hint of curiosity.

Lilith grinned at him. "Alice and Elijah are getting married," she explained. "I'm a bridesmaid. And I'm in charge of flowers and hair appointments." Her torso twisted to set the empty glass down on the tray and back again, her demeanor lighthearted and content to be with him and talking about her friend's happiness at the same time. "I wish I could take you as my date, but that wouldn't fit with your absence excuse…" she stopped abruptly in her happy ramble, surprised to see the shadow that had crept back into his eyes.

With a firm shake of his head, he closed her fingers around the key and its chain. "Never mind," he said, and held up a hand to still her words when she opened her mouth to argue. "I was thinking of all the things I need to get done before the solstice. When is the wedding?"

"The week after next…" Suspicion laced the pause emphasizing her tone of voice, her eyes slightly narrow as she took in the far-too-pleasantly blank set of his face. His eyes were shaded a neutral lavender, betrayed by the hint of gray that circled both the pupils and the edges of the iris like a three-tone wheel, his mouth a line just shy of straight. The curve there wasn't forced, necessarily, but not altogether natural, either.

"And you will have the time you need?"

"Yes…" She frowned, her teeth biting at the inside of her cheek as she made up her mind. It wasn't her imagination; he really did look strangely pained. "What's the matter?"

Instantly he was guarded again. She could see the shields slide into perfect place in the fore of his countenance, covering every scrap of information that might have peeked through with a mask of unperturbed porcelain. "What do you mean?" he asked, breezily carefree, enough to even offer a smile that, while lovely, was a mere ghost of what a real smile would have looked like.

Lilith sighed and scooted until she was tucked between the arm of the chair and his torso. "You're a horrible liar. Did you know that?"

The flicker of genuine amusement was a spark of violet amid paled eyes. "On the contrary," he corrected, "I am quite an accomplished one. I merely have no skill when it comes to lying to _you._"

"So you admit that you're lying to me." Her expression was anything but appreciative for the teasing she felt was in poor taste. Displeasure was heavy on the flavor of her breath, drawn taut along the lines of her mouth and stubborn chin, already lifting in obstinate preparation to unleash a melee of Lilith-quality rage over the issue. She didn't understand why he still saw fit to shelter her from every little thing. Sure, she could come to terms with the very real fact that some information was too dangerous for her to hear; but that was different from blatantly trying to pretend that the whole world was just fine and dandy. She was old enough to know that reality wasn't all rainbows and unicorns.

She bit firmly down on her lower lip and did a quick count to ten, recalling that she really didn't want to fly into any kind of fit in his presence if she could avoid the embarrassment that would undoubtedly come later. She also tried to remember that she was probably suffering from a hormonal surge of imbalance caused by the baby…but neither seemed to do anything more than make the ache settle a little deeper in her chest. The mere idea that he might not trust her hurt worse than she had initially thought it did.

It was whiny – she knew it was, but knowing didn't stop the hurt. "I wish you wouldn't treat me like a child."

Azrael's crystal shields melted under the force of her disappointment as the barbs of her emotional pain struck him through the probe of his instinctual feeling. And it struck him hard. He knew exactly what she meant by the words that conveyed none of the real message she wanted to send, knew that instead of feeling childlike, she felt left out, like he didn't think she could handle whatever it was that he had buried inside him where she wouldn't be able to reach. His eyes widened, his lips parted to form some meaningless protest or excuse. But he couldn't give her either; no words would come. It might have seemed silly, for though he could have quite easily looked her in the eyes and swayed her to forget the entire incident with no more than a good, strong dose of enthrallment and the proper sequence of sounds…the idea of it felt underhanded and lowly. He simply couldn't do it.

His pale blond head descended upon her shoulder, a surface which automatically adjusted to create a more comfortable place for him to rest. And as his arm curled once more about her waist, drawing her close enough to breathe in scents far deeper than that of her skin alone, he could feel her smooth her cheek against his hair. "I am sorry." There was nowhere to hide in the tone he used. The sound of his voice was husky with emotion; and a little weary for it, but it was stark with honesty, which was exactly what she had wanted. "I did not intend to imply any such thing."

"I know…" she murmured, stirring up the soft strands of white-gold that pressed against the corner of her mouth.

"I do not see you as a child—"

"I know that too."

The angle let out a heavy breath and lifted his head to touch a faint kiss to her cheek, which was hastily returned before he could pull to far away, a quick brush of her lips to his cheekbone. He tipped back his head, arching his neck to rest against the upholstery – his face a soft white light against the deep sage of the chair – and filled his eyes with the vaulted ceiling. "I am truly glad to know your social life is not affected negatively by my doing," he said, "but I am concerned that the state of relations between the immortal realms may come to do so sooner than we thought."

All her anger and sadness was whisked away. Her gaze grew sharper, green eyes accented by dark brows that drew down with a note of worry. "Why, what happened?" she asked him, curious as to why he would make such an estimation with no logical cause for it. According to him, the start of the war had been anticlimactic to the point of near inactivity, especially considering the spark had come in the form of magicking the earthen plain and threatening every life on it. Not a very subtle or wishy-washy move when it came to interpretation of intent. But then again, Azrael was a little on the paranoid side when it came to such things.

"Nothing I can use as solid proof," he reasoned, if with a touch of frustration. "However, if my gut serves me correctly, this little scuffle is going turn into a right mess. Things just cannot be simple when it comes to immortal politics."

Which meant all the more work for him, she realized as she slapped some perspective onto her mental upset. The load on her guardian's plate was sizeable during the best of times, but adding on the massive amount of stress and anxiety that came free and gift-wrapped with a conflict as chaotic as an equivalent to an international skirmish was like throwing him under a speeding bus. Or a whale-sized tank. And just like that, her anger reared its nasty, hormone-influenced head and, like a rabid cobra, swung around to face the evils of an imperfect world. The very same world that unfairly forced Azrael to do things he neither wanted, nor had the emotional stamina to cope with just now.

Not that she knew what exactly was causing that shaky delicacy…

There was nothing she could do about it, but the injustice still made her want to grind her teeth together. Instead, she slid her arms around his shoulders and pressed a soft kiss to his elegant white brow. She couldn't think of anything to say. And what could she have said? There was no point in uttering false consolations or reassurances; what good was saying it would be all right when it might very well not be? In the end, all she could think of doing was to portray her understanding…and that he needn't fear that she would be angry with him for having to stay silent, so long as he informed her of that need.

She was gently dislodged by the movement of Azrael's fingers when they groped at his neckline and detached the chain from around his throat. From the tiny gold links hung a pendant she had never before seen him carry, though from the temper and coloration of the gold she could recognize it was something he had worn often. Yet as she looked more closely, she saw that it wasn't so much a pendant as it was something else: a key, longer and lovelier than the kind used in the common purposes nowadays (putting her poor house and car keys to a liberal shame).

It was gold, slender and shaped curiously around the head, though its locking end was formed much like any other key of its kind might have been. It looked like it belonged to a trunk or an old garden door, something that the contents to its case would be both beautiful and precious.

Like a shiny pendulum, it swung by its chain from his fingers, a thing of mystery that seemed strangely familiar, as though she had seen it once before in some other time and context. He held it out for her to touch, and as her fingertips brushed the decorative lock teeth, she could feel the faint tremor of a delicate shiver as it flowed down his spine. It was something torn between dread and pleasure that she couldn't understand, so she didn't try.

Her gaze flickered to his face, unsure what to make of the fixed look he was giving the key. He seemed…spellbound, hypnotized by the glint of the slim gold thing swinging gently back and forth, as though he couldn't bear to look away. Actually, it was almost frightening, especially when several moments passed and he neither moved nor spoke a word. But before she got antsy enough to shake him by a shoulder (or something else…just to get his attention), he blinked, violet eyes gentling as they briefly flickered to her face and then back to the dangling trinket in his grasp.

His grip loosened, and, with a movement that was chillingly deliberate, he let the key drop into her open palm, its chain pooling into her small hand. She almost dropped it, not because it was heavy or anything of that sort, but because it was so warm. The gold was almost hot enough to be a small source of heat, a miniature sun for a speck-sized solar system in the palm of her hand, warm as lifeblood when his body temperature beside it had been cool to the touch. Not only that, but the key seemed to pulse against her skin as though it were alive and had a heartbeat. An oddity which lasted only a few short seconds before the pulsing faded away to the stillness befitting an inanimate object.

"What's this?" she asked him, both bewildered and just short of unnerved by the strangeness that had just nudged at her, the heat still seeping into her hand to spread outward as would a cup of hot coffee.

"Something of mine," he answered, and she could almost hear the words he barred himself from speaking behind the gentle thrum of his voice. "That I think might stay safer in your hands." His face was still, serious, contemplative as he watched the key settled in her hand…so intently it was almost as though he was waiting for it to acquaint itself with its new handler, like an animal. She eyed it, instinctively following his lead and paying attention to the alien object that was clearly much more than a simple key. Yet, when nothing happened (and when she began feeling a little silly for having hallucinated about something that could have very easily been nothing more than a spell for warmth), he reached out, unexpectedly, and tucked a strand of soft dark hair behind her ear.

Looking at him, she could see there were things flitting about behind the screen of violet eyes that he wouldn't speak. She could see it in every line of his face; every slope of perfect cheekbones and carved chin, every delicate passage of emotion spanned across his lips. For every question she could ask, there would be answers only to the mind concealed from her. This time, however, he made it clear that it was for her safety – in the way he held her gaze with a steady, piercing honesty, apologizing for nothing but the truth that said it had to be that way.

Her eyes dropped to the key, resting serenely upon the coils of its chain, and once again felt the tug of nostalgia she couldn't quite pin down to a specific memory. But as she took in its smooth angles and polished surfaces, she understood that there was some arcane, little-known significance about the gesture Azrael had made by laying the small, trinket-sized thing in her possession; something almost ceremonial in nature. As her fingers folded closed over the presentation that was evidently so much deeper than the gift of a pretty necklace, she could feel the swell of emotion that rose from her angel's aura to surround her with warmth.

He grazed her temple with his ivory mouth, gratitude and affection melded into something physical, and, with a smile, she held out the key so he could fasten the clasp about her neck. Partly to further accept the gesture that seemed almost – cheesy enough as it was, even to her own mind – as though he were giving her a token of his heart, and also partly to relish the feeling of his fingers against her skin.

With his touch to soothe all the various worries of the world, it sometimes seemed as though all the troubles simply ceased to be real.

* * *

— **Early May 1990, twenty-one years ago; suburban New York —**

It wasn't without some unheard grumblings that the angel descended to the mortal plain for an extra visit; one that hadn't been on his list for the day. He had seen to his duties as demanded by birthright and had not enjoyed being singled out for the mild torture of being ordered to return to a place like the slums of such a filthy city such as that one. Yet he could not disobey a direct order. Though, to himself, he did think it strange to be visiting for a reason other than to escort a dying soul to the afterlife. A reason that had been undisclosed, of course.

Iaheva and her mystery, bless and curse her.

The street was a quiet one, a suburban neighborhood consumed by duplex houses and studded with sad little flowering plum trees that had been recently planted as a last-ditch effort to make the lots look more natural and homey. As it was mid-morning, most children were in school, most adults busy about their days at work. The lazy, soft hush of spring was a peaceful backdrop for the slightly careworn state of the neighborhood. Not that he really cared.

It had been a long time since he had paid attention to the misfortunes of the lower-middle classes of an ultra-modern society like the ones so plentiful in America.

He touched down from flight with a gentle rustle of white feathers, his feet feeling the hard cement encasing the earth as his wings folded casually against his back as he tilted his head to look at the house passed to him by the lips of the deity both his mother and his lawgiver. As he studied it, heather gray eyes blank and unimpressed, he found himself fighting to understand why he had been sent there. It was a home like any other human dwelling, if a little more unkempt than its neighbor. Yet there was nothing remarkable about it.

All the same, her command stood unfulfilled. Thus, a mere flicker of substance in clear air to the human sight, he strode forward and through the front door to the entry hall.

Immediately he found himself having to shield the delicate senses in his nose as the stench of the home hit him full on in the face. It was the sour reek of alcohol and the salty, clinging tang of unwashed human skin, dirty fabric, and dry dust that coated the air; passable for a mortal's sense, perhaps, but a sharp irritant for him. He masked it, pushing the smell far from him with a tendril of magic stretched and wrapped to form a bubble of cleanliness around himself as he ventured forward into the untidy mess of the place.

Again, he was unimpressed by the clutter and the dirt, by the pile of shoes stacked by the door in a halfhearted attempt at order and the open closet door hung with coats and a muddy yellow umbrella. Why was he here? To witness the squalor of humanity? As if he needed the reminder.

The momentary violence of a curse, the metallic thump of an aluminum can making forcible contact with a wall. Ears pricked, he caught the dull roar of noise pierced through by a commentator's blare of enthusiasm that signaled some kind of live game being broadcasted on the television. Sure enough, as he stepped silent as a shadow into the living room, he observed the man's further annoyance as the play was repeated, depicting one team's runner being thoroughly tackled and slammed to the ground by several player's from the other.

Bored by the petty arguments of football coaches, he turned his eyes instead to the man seated in the scrappily upholstered chair. He was in his late twenties, approaching thirty, and had been the product of good-looking parents. He had dark brown hair combed back from his forehead by frustrated fingers so many times that it was beginning to thin, eyes that were a hazel more bark brown than green, and a strong jaw. Breeding didn't made a nice person, however. The angel could read the stains on the man's aura, moldering away to a state of nastiness sadly common in many parts of the world. The expression on his face gave much the same impression; twisted as it was to something like contempt caught in the mouth of a growl.

There was nothing of interest about the man. However, there was something else, shrill and piercing in the background. Something that had been there before, he had merely neglected to notice. A keening cry lit upon sensitive ears, drawing his attention toward the stairs and up to the second floor. Something was causing a terrible ruckus, and not because it was loud and disagreeable, but because it pinched at the heart like grief might – aching and piteous.

He ascended to the next level, following the noise into a cramped bedroom off the master, and found himself looking down into a sloppily-painted crib and the tiny human child that lay there wailing for its mother. _Her_ mother, he realized with a gentle prod of inquiry.

The girl's tiny hands flailed, erratic and driven by the instinctual need for the comfort of company. A spark of fear and hunger lit upon him, flickering and feeble with frailty, typical of new life, and yet he was startled. He had closed off his emotional radar, having found it both tedious and disheartening to listen in on the mundane and weighty burden of human emotion…and yet this child had reached him even through the shields to share her feeling with him. It was nowhere near as clear as an adult's broadcast would have been, but it was definite and formed as well as an infant could possibly project.

Snared by curiosity, he moved closer, gazing down at the little human – not yet a full year old – and wondered where her mother was. Why had no one come to see to the baby's needs? Here she was, crying for attention, out of hunger and fear of waking alone and there was not a twitch of response anywhere to be seen. He harbored a natural affection for children, precious as they were, and even the faintest hint that someone would purposely ignore the cries of their own child was utterly barbarous.

The angel glanced to the walls, bare as the bookshelf and the table nudged into a corner beside an uncomfortably straight-backed chair. There was nothing in the room besides the baby, her crib, the blankets beneath her and the small hamper of clothes and diapers; no toys, no books, no bright, colorful decorations to amuse the little girl. Nothing but the small plush frog with its large, black button eyes (buttons, of all things, didn't these parents know she could choke on them?) to keep her company. It had been kicked to the far corner of the crib, out of her reach, unable to soothe the feeling of loneliness. With a careful hand he picked it up, feeling the soft cloth of its floppy body, and tucked it gently next to her.

She snuffled faintly and opened a pair of eyes that he knew one day would be a startling shade of green, and looked at the frog. For a moment, it appeased her, stilling her sobs by distraction of familiarity. But it wasn't her mother, and despite his intent to comfort the baby, she screwed up her tiny face and proceeded to resume squalling.

"God_damit,_ woman!"

He jerked; having almost completely forgotten the father consumed by his beer cans and television, and lifted a wary head.

"If you don't make that thing shut up I'm going to chuck it out with the trash!" The edge of human madness laced the words, the voice of a man beyond rational respect for anything good and consumed by a deep-set rage inspired by nothing but himself. The monster meant every syllable. Without needing clues to tell him so, he knew the man was this unfortunate child's father. It was unfortunate because she would not have the kind of paternal love all children deserved by natural right. It was unfortunate because he could already see the marks of abuse in the stale taste of neglect hovering around the tiny infant's crib.

Narrowed eyes turned toward the cracked door behind him, lips curling with the warning hiss that rose from the angel's throat. The uncensored fury he caught spilling from his own mouth startled him, as did the grip his gloved fingers had suddenly adopted upon the railing of the crib. He hadn't felt so attached to something, or someone, in literal years and suddenly he was issuing verbal warnings to a strange human he had never seen before that day over treatment of a child that was not all that unusual for mortal parents. Odd…but he supposed it was only natural. He'd had enough of unaltered cruelty, enough to make it difficult to simply stand by and watch.

Reaching inside himself, he dipped into the wellspring of magic that flowed within his veins and extracted a small tendril. It unfurled like a thin ribbon of power, which expanded and flattened until it was long enough to suit his purposes, upon which he flicked it outward to trace the edges and corners of the nursery. The magic laid against the wood edging at the floor and up along the bead-board that lined the door, effectively sealing the sounds of the room inside and away from the deadly temper of the man downstairs.

Now, no matter how the child screamed, her tyrant of a father would not hear. There would be no provocation, and she would be safe.

When the door was shoved open, he shifted to watch as a slight, delicately-figured woman slipped into the nursery. She would have been fairly pretty if she smiled, even despite the tired circles shading her eyes and a face half caked with liquid concealing makeup…except that the false color hid the sour yellow-green marks of bruises, so he couldn't truly fault her for it. The gray-blue of her uniform shirt and skirt set was emblazoned with the insignia for _Lee's Drycleaning. _Yet the clothes, while they fit her well enough, didn't quite hide the tell-tale marks of a man's fingers gripped too tightly about her upper arms – ones her knew very well would be matched by those at back, thighs, and shoulders.

A bottle, the kind with a bag of formula carried inside and a rubber end for sucking was in one hand along with an extra blanket of an old cream colored knit. The woman, so clearly worn down almost to the bone, draped the blanket over her daughter and coaxed the bottle into the infant's tiny hands. As the child gripped the plastic container and began eating, the woman cast a furtive, fear-stained look over her shoulder at the door. When the angel tapped in to her emotional waves, he found relief, regret, and a strong undercurrent of despair.

Hurriedly pulling her heavy dark hair into a ponytail, the woman gave the baby a final glance and slipped back into the hall the way she'd come.

The totter of low, chunky heels thumped down the stairs and across the hall, accented by the squeak of the closet and the chink of a hanger smacking against drywall. "Claire," the man called to her, just as the front door was shouldered open. "Get more beer and some chicken when you're coming home." The door shut hard behind her.

Crossing to the window, the angel looked down at the woman as she headed toward the bus stop at the corner of the road. She was clutching her coat to her chest as though it was helping her keep her ribs from splitting into pieces. There was a run in her stocking, a tiny one blotted with clear nail polish in the hopes it would stop fraying, and a small patch at the edge of her skirt, and as she walked, she wiped her cheeks as though brushing away tears.

The baby was crying again, more softly this time, more of a fuss for the absence of her mother than for the hunger that had been gnawing at her belly before. Her meal was finished, the bottle empty, and she clung to her frog with one tiny hand as she sniffled and fussed. The poor thing. Loathed by her father and half ignored by her mother; how in the world would she survive childhood?

He turned away from the window and stood by the crib, leaning over the railing to look down at the small human with her chubby cheeks and tuft of dark hair, wrapped in her yellow, second-hand jumper and blanket. All she truly wanted was to be held and loved and cared for. Could it really be too much to ask? He could feel the ache in his chest as his sympathy swelled for the baby and her awful situation, the emptiness that surrounded her with only the barest hints of necessity to imply her parents cared for her. As he leaned farther down, brushing the soft pale skin of the child's cheek, he listened with a tenderness he hadn't known in many a year as her whimpers eased and quieted. She could neither see him nor sense him in any way, yet still she hushed beneath his touch, reacting to the calming presence he passed to her.

The key on its fine gold chain slipped from where it had been tucked inside his shirt to dangle in the air above her face. And, almost as if she had seen it, despite his invisibility to mortal eyes, she put up one tiny arm and reached for the glittering pendent hanging from around his neck. His eyes softened, a touch of violet warming the color of cold irises as the corner of his mouth curved gently upward.

No longer was he alone in the room with the baby. The shift in alignment in the air and the magical spark of arrival cued the appearance of another angel.

"Ah—" Cassiel's deep voice was strung with the lilt of surprise as he took in the angel already bent over the little girl. "I didn't know you were here, Azrael."

The girl was fading into a nap when he straightened, though his eyes remained settled upon the round little face when he asked, "are you the guardian of this child?"

"Yes," the dark-skinned angel replied with a short nod, black braids swinging as he did.

Still Azrael kept his eyes on the child's sleepy face, even as he tucked the key back under his collar. "I will take charge of her now," he said, and there was neither question nor request to the words. He didn't see the surprise that crossed his lieutenant's face, nor did he notice as the other angel quickly hid it away behind a screen of impassive calm, nor the sparkle of interest in a pair of dark eyes.

"Certainly," Cassiel agreed, "I can have the guardianship changed right away."

"Thank you." Azrael's eyes never once moved from the baby, not even when Cassiel disappeared, headed back to heaven and Raphael's records of which guardian angel watched over which mortal to change the name set to guard the little girl now fast asleep beneath his watch.

And guard her he would. She was a tiny light, and he would do everything in his power to keep that light from going out.

_Lilith,_ he found with a brush of inquiring magic. Her name was Lilith. And he, from that point on, was her guardian.

* * *

**Hello, faithful readers!**

**First order pf business, my apologies on the bit of a wait, I had some minor blockage in the middle of the first segment. **

**Second order of business...this was a slow chapter, and not very progressive, but necessary all the same for several reasons. I promise things will get more exciting soon. I wanted to add another scene on the end of this chapter, but decided it wasn't going to work right, so I didn't. It'll be next chapter instead. The second rough half of this chapter is (as if you didn't know), while neither thrilling nor divulging new information, something I thought needed to be "seen," as it were. That's why it's there.**

**I'm pleased to announce that the majority of the next two chapters was written a while ago, so all I have to do is go over it and reshape some parts. Hopefully there will be updates soon!**

**Please, please take a moment to review for me; it means more than some of you may know.**

**Until next time!**


	8. Burning the Past

**Chapter 8: Burning the Past**

Recommended Listening: "Undisclosed Desires" by Muse

* * *

It was gray and stormy-wet in Poland that morning; thick clouds gathered high above the bare and shriveled trees swirling as though with an irritable temper, the white expanse if the sky mixed with the steely gray of a fast-approaching tempest. A breath of ice edged the wind that blew decaying leaves across the empty cement highway splitting the countryside. It was a chill that served a tidy harmony to the land glazed with a thin film of frosted patterns, as though tiny chips of glass had been melted down and painted into swirling, shimmering designs by idle fingers. Wrapped all together, it was the dry bitterness of winter's crushing, unforgiving grip.

The railroads cut clean, metal tracks through the wilderness – though wilderness here meant naught but a grayed field of tall meadow grass stretching far as the eye could see, dotted here and there by spindly trees that had surrendered leaves to the beckoning of the season's cold. Adjacent to these, crossing and crisscrossing on top of themselves, was the road. Built to accommodate tourists, the paved stretch of road was far newer and fresher than the rest of the place. And since the winter had turned hard and bitter, the parking spots painted strict and straight along the outer walls were empty, even of tour guides and custodians.

A harsh, rigid stillness had overtaken the camp. While long years had passed since its time of pride and precedence, it was nearer now to that glorious past now – empty and deserted – than it ever had been packed with viewers eager to recall its history. In those days, it had not been an up-kept wasteland, but a tiny city built upon ideals sewn with distrust and stuffed with intolerance.

Constructed of a mottled red-brown brick, the buildings were stained with the wear of both weather and premature age. It had stood proudly in the years of its own frightful righteousness, yet now it was ragged, rendered so more by a horrific disdain than a lack of physical care. In the sense of importance it was no more than a rotting remnant of a time where fear had been everything and power had been used as a sword with which to strike down the fearful. For, despite its genial, old-country frontal façade of walls, those who came to view it knew all too well of the horrors housed in memory, long-since frozen in time between yards upon yards of barbed wire.

Almost one hundred years had passed since Death had willingly tread the earth of that particular area of Poland, and longer still since he had passed the place at all for the waking nightmares it held for him. The last time he had set foot on the soil of the camp, it had been January in the year 1945 and he had been posing as an officer of a British liberation group sent in with the Soviet legions to free the Jewish prisoners held inside.

In the course of his considerably lengthy existence, Azrael had borne witness to periods of human history that had been brutal, violent, and fraught with cruelty. It was a part of being immortal, to watch as wars were waged, inquisitions undertaken, genocides commanded, and unspeakable acts put into motion. Auschwitz-Birkenau had by no means been the first of its kind, nor had the war based on ideas that many had called radical new notions of hatred never before seen…by those whose lives were considered so brief by the angels who observed them. Yet the Second human World War had struck blows in his heart the likes of which he had never been able to recover from.

The camp itself had been only one of several intended to corral the Jews together. To keep them from corrupting the good, common Germans, or whatever rhetoric it was Hitler had used to sway his followers to blame a group of people for the state of economic strife that had followed their defeat in the First World War. People who, as a collective unit, had done no more wrong than his precious Aryans. Yet it had stood for all the evils man had ever been capable of, and such a massive center for depravity and disregard for life and reason had felt like poison to the angel sent to carry souls rent to pieces by its swords and guns and gas chambers.

The place was so sodden with awful memories that he could almost feel the ghosts gripping him by the throat and hands.

It was not the gateway itself which caught Azrael's eye, but the metal-wrought sign arching above his head. _Arbeit Macht Frei, _it read, "_work brings freedom."_ Except that work had not brought the people who had suffered her anything but pain and, ultimately, death.

_Arbeit macht Todesfall._

It had been an enclosed cage barred with torment and malice. Josef Mengele had been overlord here, using his power to authorize the conception of inhumane things…but everyone knewthe crimes of the Nazis. Everyone knew the monstrosities signed into action by the man who had been honorated by the Allies as "_the_ _Angel of Death_."

This place had deeply scarred his emotional balance. Though he was immortal (and thus tougher than a human), his inner, psycho-emotional workings were shaped more closely to a human's than any other angel's were, and had been sorely affected by the horrors that had taken place behind the walls of that outpost. All of it based on orders given for the sake of Mengele's indifference for human life; Mengele…who had stolen his title and smeared it into something foul.

Of course, due to the protocol on interaction between the earthly and heavenly plains – which dictated that interaction was acceptable, but only through the guise of a human – he had not been allowed to step in and simply put an end to the massacre. Instead he had watched sinking deeper into despair and disgust as more and more innocent people had been ripped apart. Their families separated, their minds mangled, and their bodies purposely desiccated, hurt, and torn.

In those years he had been more smoke and grayness and dark fact than anything else. Most of his real self had been buried deep beneath the death sense that enabled him to be realistic and distanced enough to stay sane. Though his time had been limited, but he had managed to spend a good deal of it among the Allied troops of the British and American Regimes, posing as a human soldier, doing all he feasibly could to make it all stop. Even that had not seemed like enough.

Even now, after so many years, he could still feel the killings that had occurred here, as he could with any place that had been marked by the concentrated imprint of massive death. He could smell the burned flesh and the decaying hopes of those who had suffered and eventually passed into his care. And as he stepped through the gate, he could feel the cold, black stain of the memories seep through the soles of his boots and upward…straight on a dead-end course for his heart.

The ground was firm under his feet, mottled gray-brown and slightly damp with the remnants of an early morning rain. A pesky wind snapped at his hair and clothing, biting at the exposed flesh of his cheeks and nose with a sting of cold. The creak of old wood caught his ears, the only sound worth giving a name to_._ The rest was silence and grayness striped with brick buildings – housing blocks.

Dusky eyes narrowed, hateful in remembrance. A dull ache was gnawing at his gut, nursed by the clawing hands of ghostly feelings settled thick and heavy upon the ground and in the air. It was both unsettling and painful. So many memories, so many deaths, so many crying voices pleading, begging for someone to end their suffering…silenced forever. It was such a shame.

But he wasn't here to linger on the past. There was another reason for revisiting this broken down slice of human hell, though one no more pleasant.

At the back of consciousness, he could feel the flickering presence of a freshly dead soul. His eyes swept over the landscape, buildings and grounds alike, to focus at the very end of the encircled camp. _There…_in the right back corner. She was there. Walking slowly, he picked his way across grounds strewn with dirt as though afraid that the earth would drop beneath his feet and swallow him up if he was not careful.

The shadows were long for early evening, and he stuck to them as he rounded the corner of one of the blocks – his long coat of durable black painted even darker by the twilit gray of the irritable weather and light. At the end of the brick structure he paused; sharp eyes focused on the little alcove that closed off the bend between the two rear buildings…and at the two young girls sitting there, huddled upon the ground.

In reality, there was only one girl. This he knew not only by physical sight, but an internal one – the spirit within him that had been made to tell the difference between a human's solid body and their soul. He noted the way that the body's head had slumped forward, chin resting against her chest, her hands lying limp at her sides. The turned-up palms were stained dark with blood and a sharp kitchen knife had fallen to the dirt beside her. This was a suicide. The child (for she certainly couldn't have been older than fifteen at the most) had slit her own wrists; a crude and painful way to go about it, but apparently efficient enough for her needs.

By this point her spirit had sunk in to the shock of having shucked her body. She sat beside it, legs drawn up and arms wrapped around her torso, shivering as though with cold. Azrael approached the transparent figure on the wings of the coming night, quiet, silhouetted by what light there was left.

Upon hearing the fall of his steps, she looked up, brown eyes wide with fear and wet with tears. But it wasn't until he was standing right beside her that she spoke.

"Are you the Devil?"

She spoke a variation on German, as some of the people of Poland did; a rich, vibrant language that he understood quite well. In the afterlife in the immortal realms, all languages were the same; all tongues could speak, all ears could hear and know. His voice automatically reformed to come out in the tongue that matched hers as he answered the question. It was one he had heard many times. "No, child. I am not."

"You're God then?" She questioned further.

"No."

"Then you _are_ the Devil."

He shook his head, a graceful movement made airy by the spill of his hair about his face. "I am not your God, but this does not automatically mean that I am evil. Else we would all be devils and fear would not exist."

She continued to peer at him through fading tears, though the pain in her eyes remained as raw and sharp as before. They were brown, dark and rich like healthy soil, and scrutinized his white skinned face and pale hair. "I didn't really think you were God," she muttered, glancing toward the knife that lay beside the hand of her abandoned shell. "God damns suicides."

"You are not damned, child. God does not damn those that were unhappy with the life given to them."

A soft snuffling reached his sensitive ears. A noise that was so near to nothing that he barely caught it, and he looked on as the soul's shoulders shook with strangled sobs, the back of one hand pressed to her mouth in a sorry attempt to quiet her own crying. It was a pitiful sight, but he was nowhere near cold enough to pass it over, as he had once been.

Often he felt sympathy for those he visited. Many were angry with him for pulling them out of the world to a completely different one. Many cried and screamed and begging him to put them back in their bodies and keep on living, afraid of where they were headed for their afterlife. These he had treated with the firm indifference befitting ill-mannered children, dragging them forcefully to the judges' halls and determined to have no more to do with them. But it was those like the girl beside him – knowing well that they were dead for good, knowing that their choice was now gone, and sure of self-damnation – that bothered him the most.

Perhaps because they were so pitiful that he couldn't help but feel sorry for them. Or perhaps it was because they reminded him of his own brushes with misfortune; suffering from a pain that they could not see to heal and wanting nothing but to escape it.

He couldn't bar the memories flooded through him, inspired by the girl's unfortunate circumstance. They rose like the tide in his mind, tossing recollections for him to mull over, wince, and push away. He could still remember what it felt to be completely alone, drowning in grief; he could remember the spearing agony of betrayal, the sting of insults long since turned to a dull sore spot at the edge of his heart. He could remember the smells and sounds of hate, of fear, of people and places he would never be able to forget no matter how old he grew, no matter how much time passed him by. He would always be a rock, warded against erosion from the river that coursed along.

It was a dark, cold place, his history.

"I just wanted someone to love me." Jolted sharply out from the pool of his memories, he looked down to see the girl's tearstained face drop. "I tried, but…I-I couldn't do it anymore—" The word was cut off with a choked sob and she pressed her hand back over her mouth to quell it, eyes squeezing shut as she tried to swallow her own tears.

Azrael could have said many things and never found a way to comfort her, but empathy and understanding brought the words to him. Barely moving his lips, voice hushed to the softest kind of whisper, "I know," he said. It almost hurt him to say it, though he didn't quite know why. But it also seemed to give him strength – admitting that he, too, had known the bitterness of life devoid of real love. "_I know._"

Gradually the girl's sobs faded, giving way to the soft sniffles of a person calmed after an emotional onslaught. With a gloved hand, he held out his arm for her to take, just as the wind began to whip and the deeper rolls of thunder trembled in the air around them. "Come," the murmur was quiet, weary and overtaken by ritual. "Rise, and walk with me."

She glanced at his hand and turned her tear-reddened eyes back to his face. "Where are we going?"

"Home," was his answer; feather-smooth and clear as glass.

Without another word she took the offered hand and surrendered herself to his gifts of calm, serenity, and a promise of things far better than those found in a graveyard.

* * *

"…_and thus, the Second Holy War ended with the fall of the great empire of Egypt."_

Lilith put down the thick book of records and maneuvered herself from the armchair for a quick stretch break. After almost three solid hours of reading, she was more than ready for one, and her back relished the shift from the seated position to relieve the ache in the muscles. After touching a palm to her belly (and smiling faintly and she did so) she lifted her arms high above her head did a quick set of upper-body stretches to work out the kinks of inactivity. She was surprisingly stiff.

Azrael had been gone when she'd risen for the day, off performing his usual deathly duties, and leaving her to search for something to occupy her mind until he returned. Upon making a mental note to bring some things along with her the next time she was due for a visit, she had turned her attention to the shelves of books lining the walls of his library.

For such a marvelous personal record-room, Azrael kept it in a horrific state of disarray. Volumes on art, psychology, sciences, nature, anatomy, astrology, and nearly everything one could possibly think of had been stuffed in the shelves at pure random. The librarian in her had been itching to remove everything and begin to sort and reshelf…but she kept the desire in check, knowing that a task such as cataloguing the entire room would take a considerable amount of time, and she felt that she had better ask her warden for permission before she completely tore apart his library. Yet despite the disorder causing a tell-tale itch in her fingers, she couldn't deny that the variety bursting at the room's seams was heartily inviting. Just the thought that he probably owned a few books no one on earth had ever read before made her feel giddy.

While perusing the impressive collection of prospective reading material, she had stumbled (almost literally) over a section devoted purely to historical records of intertwined mortal and immortal realms. Since she was now technically immortal, she had wondered whether it mightn't be worthwhile to catch up on the history of her new world. Since that moment, she had made her way through two of the twenty-seven immense leather-bound volumes.

The snippets of immortal history were fascinating, but difficult to decode due to there being entire chapters hand written in languages she couldn't read. One particular section was scrawled in a sloppy sort of code, but she skipped it rather than make an attempt to decode the symbols, knowing full well it would only give her a monster of a headache. Instead, she chose to skip on to the bits written in English. There wasn't much in proportion to the size of the books, but the chunks were sizeable.

Drawing out the fluctuating periods between times of peace and war, the formation of laws and separation of powers, who had the rights to do what when…it was convoluted and puzzling to read. Almost all of the writing was composed in a vernacular and syntax her human comprehension had no familiarity with and most of what she scanned was taken out of proper context due to all the other missing pieces. There was something, however, that stood out no matter how confusing the facts and rules and rephrased laws were; a correlation between swells of human conflict and immortal conflict. The first holy war had come in tandem with the traumatic fall of the Egypt's power, and the second shortly after during the collapse of the Roman Empire. Nothing described that this was a common occurrence or simple coincidence, but it was definitely an interesting thing to ponder over.

Once in a while she skimmed over names that jumped out at her; some she recognized from biblical myths, some from other sources. But she didn't take them too close to heart, for she was fairly certain she knew next to nothing true about those people. The touches of familiarity turned it into something like a weirdly believable fantasy story. And she had been comfortably engaged since she'd chosen her first volume.

With a last stretch of an achy back (as tended to happen to pregnant women even before they visibly began showing, Pandora had assured her), she sat back down, curling up in the soft, cushy armchair with her feet beneath her bottom. Sitting her book down so it lay open on the desk, she settled with a small, contented sigh, prepping herself to dive back into the tome of unearthly history. Her eyes landed upon the open page, the leather binding smooth to her touch as she guided the book's spine into her lap…and she noticed something odd.

A meek, metallic click had come from somewhere behind her. For an awful second she suffered a shallow tremor of fear. But panicked thoughts of being discovered and dragged in front of some demonic court were forcefully pushed back down with an exhale of quiet laughter. She may have been in hell, but there were certain things that just didn't happen, and being caught unawares in a suite as heavily protected as this one was one of them. Besides, it was sure to be Azrael coming home. So, a welcome smile already warming her mouth, she turned expectantly toward the door.

He stepped into the room with a rustle of dark cloth and a flash of pale hair. Perhaps to anyone who didn't know him well, he would look like a stern young reverend with his long black jacket, crisp, white shirt, and dark slacks tucked into his favorite pair of riding boots. Maybe he would have looked as mild and handsome as he always did. But Lilith knew immediately that there something different about him. To her, he looked worn and tired, as though he had come from a day filled with difficult physical labor; something in the way his mouth and jaw looked strangely taut, his body stiff with a thinly veiled discomfort.

She studied him, meticulous as she took in the slightest edge of sorrow in his expression, the source of which she could not directly identify. Before she could pinpoint anything which might have given her a more determinable clue as to the source of his fatigue he had turned away, running a single finger down the edge of the door to lock it. The movement seemed to be more habitual than consciously-directed.

Concerned by his obvious weariness, she twisted even farther in her chair and issued a tentative greeting. "Hey…"

He didn't answer. Handsome face drawn and still, he shrugged out of his jacket with only a hitch of stiffness in the arm which had mostly healed from Beelzebub's well-meaning knife stroke. It was evident from the way his eyes seemed hazed and blank that his mind was focused on something entirely separate from anything in the room with him.

Lilith tried again. "Did you have a good day?" she asked, determined to penetrate his mental stupor.

Silent as a tomb, he crossed the room to approach the bookshelf nearest to the hearth, bending to scan the titles of the volumes kept there. Never once did he look her way, giving no hint that he even knew she was there. When he finally straightened, tucking his chosen book under one arm she caught a glimpse of the irises shaded a purple so consumed with gray that there was almost no trace of violet left. And then, without word or glance, he stepped through the door leading to his chambers and pulled it closed with a muted snap. Colder than a freezer in the winter, Janelle would have said.

Now, if Lilith was anything when it came to people, it was perceptive. She had known Azrael long enough now to know when something was bothering him. It wasn't as if he hid it very well. Yet when he had something on his mind, he could usually be persuaded (admittedly with some mildly manipulative tactics on her end) to talk about it. But just then, he hadn't said a word.

But there was another factor that worried her much more; the lack of physical contact he had given. It wasn't that she expected him to waltz through the door, sweep her off her feet and kiss her senseless every night when he came in, but Azrael was very partial to the sense of touch. Normally he could barely last ten solid minutes in her presence without at least making some kind of contact with her. Whether it was a brief stroke of his hand to her cheek, a quick brush of his fingers through her hair, a touch to her shoulder or arm, or even a short kiss to the forehead – he was _always_ touching her. The fact that he hadn't so much as looked at her was frankly disturbing.

And yet, she already knew he hadn't been doing it deliberately. She hadn't done anything to upset him which might result in sulking (if Azrael was even prone to sulking when peeved), nor had he been trying for intentional rudeness, obviously. It was as though he had honest to god not realized she was there.

Was it the war? Had the fighting started? But no; it couldn't be that, because he would have gone to his soldiers, not come back to hell in a dark mood. It must be something else. All the same…

Something had seriously shaken the angel of death that day, and she couldn't imagine what. She barely had so much as a rough idea of what he did during his work hours, so how was she supposed to have the ability to locate the source of that distance? It scared her, even more than the time when she had come home to find him unresponsive and reclusive due to the thought of her eventual death. Because this time, she wasn't entirely sure what she could do about it.

Deeply troubled, Lilith slid a scrap of parchment into her book to mark her place before closing it and rising from her chair, debating and deliberating and chewing her lip all the while. She was unsure of what to do to help him in any way. After all, the one experience she could draw from included an Azrael that was conscious to her presence, not oblivious to it, so somehow the idea of badgering or bullying him into talking probably wasn't a good choice of ways to go about it. But what else could do?

Pacing back and forth beside the desk, she fretted herself into half-knots trying to plot her way to an answer.

Perhaps it was the pacing, but somehow she stumbled upon the idea of locating someone who knew Azrael well enough to help her puzzle out the strange mood. Her first choice would have been Beelzebub, Azrael's closest friend and the man who had told her about the dark history surrounding her warden's past. However, Beelzebub was royalty here, a status which risked slipping her into an uncomfortable situation with other members of the royal house (since she wasn't exactly supposed to be there), and that was if she knew where to find him…which she didn't. But even if she could find him, he had a way of making her feel the tiniest bit uncomfortable with his charmer's personality and intense way of phrasing things. And he was something of a know-it-all.

She decided it would be better to go with her second choice. Pandora – being quite close to her guardian – was sure to know what was going on. Plus, she was female, and would be more likely to understand her concerns than any man.

Despite having been warned that it was dangerous to wander outside the safety of the protected suite alone, Lilith slipped quietly out the front door and (after glancing both ways to find the corridor empty) ran down the dreary stone path which led to the infirmary. Right that minute, she didn't honestly care much about her own safety. Worry surged through her, lacing her blood with adrenaline and granting her access to the speed her newly-immortalized body housed, allowing her to race down the halls at a pace unreachable to her before. After skidding to a slippery, ungraceful stop outside the office door, she lifted a hand and knocked on the wood to announce her presence and prayed to anyone listening that the medic would be in.

"Come in," Pandora called, and Lilith shoved the barrier open to step inside – very quietly, just in case there was a patient being tended to. But Pandora was alone in her office with an empty medical table and a bare workbench, hands busy with a steaming bowl of what looked like ramen that she had most likely just retrieved from the kitchens. Upon hearing the door close, the silver eyed demon looked up and smiled brightly. She looked peppy and stylish in a pair of skintight jeans and a teal and blue striped shirt that laid her shoulders bare, and her violently red hair was riddled with black pins tucking ironed curls into order.

Waving her visitor to the comfortable chair that sat nonchalantly beside her own, she urged: "Come sit, come sit! Sorry, I've just gotten a break to eat. Hope you don't mind…"

"Not at all," Lilith said, smiling weakly at the other female as she took the offered chair.

Quick as a flash, the demoness picked up the mood being transmitted and deduced that her visitor had not come to enjoy a mild chatting session between friends – which she had done a once or twice before. Surprisingly, Lilith had warmed extremely well to Pandora's company. Slurping up a good deal of her ramen, Pandora satisfied her protesting hunger for a moment and asked, "what brings you here this time of night? Is that medicine I gave you working on the sickness at all?"

The brunette nodded, "it's working fine, I haven't thrown up since you gave it to me."

"Excellent. And you're not having any other problems?" Lilith shook her head, no, looking all the more glum as she did so. Pandora's eyes flickered toward the hour-candle burning away in its dish and inquired, "Shouldn't Azrael be getting home soon? I think he'd want you to be there when he does."

"He's just got in," Lilith answered, her eyes focused on the ramen bowl as she did. "But he…he's acting strange and it's kind of freaking me out."

Pandora snapped to attention; her friendly bemusement replaced immediately by concern. Nudging her dinner to the side, she turned her full attention onto the girl. Lilith had come for help and advice, which was something Pandora was all too willing to give. It was sweet; her guardian had often done the very same thing before her. "You say strangely? How so?"

"I don't know," Lilith pushed her heavy dark hair away from her face, unable to keep from fidgeting in her battle against the pressures of worry. "He came in looking like the living dead, like he was suffering from exhaustion. I know that can happen when he's under stress, but I didn't think the war was that bad yet. He's so…disengaged from everything around him, like he wasn't even in the room, even though he knew where he was." She took a breath, mentally telling herself to calm down and stop shrieking like a scalded teakettle. There was no need to fret so much. Surely there was a reasonable explanation. "It was like he couldn't even _feel_ me. He didn't even—"

Quickly she bit off the complaint that he hadn't even touched her before she could actually utter it. She knew she was reacting to the fact that Azrael had been light on physical contact since returning from having left her. He had touched her, certainly, he didn't seem to be able to avoid that; but he had been distant and dispassionate as far as touching went for days, even after discovering she wasn't ill or cursed or in danger in any way. It was bothering her more than she'd originally assumed. Their relationship had been built upon a bond of trust through touch, and now that he didn't seem as interested in her physically…she was feeling a little neglected, and a lot worried.

"It was strange," she concluded finally, settling there with small sigh and a hopeful look toward where Pandora was listening closely.

"He didn't even what?" Pandora pressed.

Lilith's cheeks went lightly pink, just enough to show Pandora a pretty blush when she looked up from another slurp of noodles. All it took was that flush of heat in the cheeks and the self-conscious fold of arms around the middle to plant the idea very clearly in the redhead's mind. "Ah…" She flashed a quick smile at the girl, then paused, the expression fading as the reality of that sank into her consciousness. "Do you mean he hadn't touched you since before he left?"

Embarrassed and grateful that she hadn't needed to say anything at all to help the other woman understand, Lilith nodded, and watched as Pandora adopted a look that was as troubled as she felt.

That was odd. It was most unlike Azrael to avoid his chosen mate in that manner. When he formed an attachment, the link was permanent, even painful if it failed. In fact, he still held traces of the connection to only other mortal woman he had bound himself to, except that he hadn't solidified the link with her as completely or devotedly as he had with Lilith; he had been heartbroken when she'd left him. Azrael had wallowed in self-disgust and depression for ten years.

When orders from above had forced him back into his old lover's presence, he had been revealed as an angel. Rebecca had immediately tried to convince him that she still loved him, that she was only trying to find a way to make a better life for the two of them. But Azrael had turned away, his bond with her having firmly shifted from one of affection to one of scorn. His final words to her had been: "you will not see me again until the day you pass from this world; and hell will welcome you with smiling jaws." He had made them come true.

She could still hear the depth of the hatred in his voice when he had said uttered those words. It still, to that very day, gave her chills.

The angel of death had turned his back on love after that, deciding that his maker had been wrong about his need for it and not understanding that he had made a grave mistake by choosing too soon. His dependence on affection and companionship would not let him rest until he found the one he was looking for, he merely couldn't allow himself to see it. Depression made his existence a misery for over four hundred years, until the day he had been ordered to the crib-side of a newborn baby, a baby suffering from neglect and abuse. The baby he would later take under his proverbial and literal wings as his ward. Only God knew whether or not Azrael had suspected how close he would become to the little girl.

From what she had witnessed and determined through understanding the angel's character, Pandora knew that Azrael spared no expense to keep his charge happy and comfortable. He loved her excessively and he didn't care who knew it. The underlying crispness and formality of his demeanor softened whenever she was near, he was nothing but gentle with her, he had found the means to father a child through her. So _what_ had happened to make him look Lilith over like she was describing? It wasn't in his character to do so. Unless…

"Azrael's visits today—" Pandora murmured, "sometimes he has one that reminds him of the past, and he can get lost in bad memories. It's happened before." She stirred the noodles in their broth with her chopsticks and thought for a moment, half-hesitating before she added, "it would definitely explain the mood shift and the lack of recognition."

Lilith's eyes were dark with empathy for her guardian. Without specifics, even when he wasn't around to see it, she could imagine what kind of places – and what manner of memories – he might have suffered to visit out of duty. Her sorrow was a stain of feeling across her face and her aura, making her pretty face fall and her mouth arc with a frown.

"I'm sure you already know this," Pandora said softly, "but there's a reason why the Almighty made an exception to the unwritten law of chastity for Azrael. He gets so consumed by his darker thoughts that he needs someone to help pull him back onto his feet again. Someone who can distract him from the negatives of the world." A small smile curved the female demon's mouth, strawberry-flavored balm creating a shallow shine to the tiny gesture that was encouragement and understanding. "That's why she sent him to you."

And somehow, though the bluntness was a little startling, she _had_ known. Almost since their first meeting, she had come to realize that Azrael's internal balance was delicate, that his job was difficult for him to manage on an emotional level. It was as if hearing it spoken out loud had made it clearer for her to visualize, and the picture gave her a sense of purpose.

All the times he had helped her, dragged her out of harm's way, held her through frustrated tears; it was her job to do the same for him. She had begun by accepting him and then by giving up her mortality for him, now with the life she had decided to live beside him, she was to hold him through _his_ tears. They were meant to help each other; to be strong when the other weakened, to support them when they were hurt, and – above all – to love one another. It seemed so simple. But wanting to didn't tell her_ how_ to pull him out of his current state of despair.

Gazing at Pandora with a sad light shadowing her green eyes, she asked, "but what should I do? I don't know how to break through depression on a biblical scale…"

The redhead's visage remained kindly uncertain, halfway pitying, and for a long moment she merely played with her ramen, stirring the noodles over and over until Lilith felt nearly dizzy watching. And then, quite suddenly, the expression on Pandora's face melted into a coy, knowing smile. "I think I have just the thing." Scooting her chair closer to the girl, and as if she were about to share some great, terrible secret, she murmured, "listen to me—"

* * *

The door that led into the dining hall was ajar, and swung easily open when pushed, just far enough to slip quietly inside. A large, cavernous room, it was strewn with scrubbed, wooden tables lined with uniform chairs. The very back of the room was an opening into the kitchens; an open wall bordered by an iron- and stone-wrought counter, hollowed in places and raised in some to house dishes, silverware, cups, and trays – behind the counter were storage bins and pots that were used to hold great portions of the foods, drinks, and other eatables that had been prepared for the diners that day. The counters would be manned by a couple of servants (demon and damned alike) who would take orders, gather requested foods, run-and-fetch condiments, bus the tables, and take used dishes to the washers.

No one stood behind the counter just then, no one sat at the tables, and only a small number of the crystal-kept lamps that hung over the room's expanse were lit – marking the time as late. The kitchens never closed, but the usual time-frame for dinner had long since passed. The workers would all be washing dishes, storing away extra and leftover food, or leaving to spend their evenings elsewhere, though a few would stay behind until morning to receive any random, spur-of-the-moment requests from the residents requiring their services.

Lilith surveyed the cold, stony room with wide eyes, mild discomfort sending prickles of an apprehensive chill up and down her spine. She felt more alone and vulnerable than she had since first coming to the realm, and was reminded (in a very blunt, backhanded way) that she was in hell, surrounded by demons…not all of whom were friendly or indifferent. Clutching the neck of the dressing gown more tightly to her throat, she padded up to the counter, peering around for any sign of life. The passageways that led back into the kitchens were darker even than the dining area, so she couldn't see if anyone would be able to hear her as she called, hesitantly soft, "umm, excuse me…"

Nothing moved. There was no response of any kind.

She turned around, searching the wide room around her for anything that may prove useful in any way at all; a call-bell or another entrance, but there was nothing. Everything had been put away for the night. She bit her lip and waited, hoping that someone would chance by and offer assistance, which she knew was quite silly and very unpractical considering where she was. But she couldn't help feeling that the plan Pandora had made her memorize would not work out…though perhaps that was just an excuse because, what she really wanted to do was get out of those clothes—

"What are you doing here?"

Lilith jumped, whirling around to face the sudden announcement of company, surprised by both the spoken words and by the negative animosity within the statement. But then she understood the strong and rather nasty emphasis on "_you"_ as she looked up into the lovely, haughty face of a woman she had seen only once – and had never spoken to before now.

Pandora had told her that Nisroc – the mistress of hell's kitchen – was a notorious man-chaser, and that she had been through nearly all the male entities in hell (some even two or three times over). According to Pandora, the blonde beauty had set her sights on Azrael the day she had taken charge of the kitchens and he had come for an evening meal (as had many of the realm's people). Apparently had caught the she-demon's attention.

It wasn't all that surprising, truly. Beautiful as he was; Azrael was the ideal sort of specimen to attract the clutching, greedy lusts of a demoness. Her life force was derived from it, feeding from the pleasures that had been forbidden to her as an angel; it was what had caused her to fall from heaven, committing the crime that was sexual contact with the already damned Asmodeus, her own brother. Pandora had hinted that she didn't put it past Nisroc to try whatever devious plots she could to snare the angel's attention. Something about knowing all that left Lilith with a sour taste in her mouth, and a strong desire to take the prissy demon and shove her face into something squishy, nasty, and smelly.

But face-to-face with the tall, buxom, and (admittedly) gorgeous woman, Lilith felt her righteous flare of anger fade into a meager spark. The glare set in Nisroc's blue eyes pierced her through, sharp and cold as a spear of ice – a look that told a story of the derisive, disrespectful attitude belonging to a teenaged girl too stuck-up for her own good. Lilith seriously wondered whether the blonde demon would take the silent moment to hit her (or something equally unpleasant) for bothering her.

She only just remembered what her errand was. Upon thinking about it and what was at stake, she straightened, energy renewed as she stared back into the succubus' eyes of ice. Pandora had made the plan perfectly clear…and it was the only one she had to help pull her warden out of his brooding misery. If she had to stare down all the sirens of hell, by God, she would do it.

"I…" Her voice cracked, and she coughed – a blush of embarrassment heating her cheeks as she fumed at her sad, wussy nerves. "I was sent to fetch some wine from your kitchen, ma'am." She could have retched after speaking so humbly to such a foul creature, but Pandora had advised her to be polite. No one could say what Nisroc would do if she was offended. And even now, as Lilith waited for a reply, she seriously feared (from the extremely put-out expression on the demon's face) that Nisroc was about to launch herself over the counter and gouge out her eyes.

"_Who_ sent you?" The female snapped, crossing her arms over her chest and making it painfully clear that she had been expecting a man to be calling instead of a human girl.

Praying to anyone who happened to be listening that she would get through the encounter unscathed, Lilith answered politely, "His Grace Shinigami, ma'am." There, just as Pandora had instructed her…

Nisroc's face pinched unpleasantly in an expression that was half-startled and half-infuriated, and Lilith considered that perhaps now might be a good time to flee for her life, the glower was so fierce. There was a split instant of recognition, something that touched the blue eyes of the succubus and stared out at Lilith with a jealousy and rage that it caused the near-physical sensation of being raked over with a knife. Fingernails (painted a lurid pink) clenched and flexed, yearning to lash out and put grooves into the other female's face…but something stopped her. Something that looked suspiciously by a remembered fear, the kind that recalled old encounters, words long-since fallen to a hush and hands that had left bruises on more than just skin.

Such a powerful response to her guardian's title made Lilith not only worry for her safety, but curious as to the reason. Why was this female so vehemently negative toward her? Did Nisroc know what she was? Did she envy the relationship – or perhaps just part of it – that Lilith shared with Azrael?

Yet as much as Nisroc wanted to harm her, the demoness refrained with an effort. With a huff, she turned on her heel, cascade of blond curls floating about her head as she did so, and approached a cupboard stocked with bottles some distance behind her. The shimmer of her silver lamé top and sleek, tight black pencil skirt –complete with a slit to mid-thigh and ridiculously high heels – was eye catching in the lamplight, emphasizing that the woman's taste, while slightly trashy, was sophisticatedly so. "Red or white?" she snarled.

Lilith swallowed thickly. "Red, please."

When the dark glass bottle was shoved into her hands, Lilith thanked the demon graciously and headed for the exit as fast as she could without appearing to be in a hurry. Though her heart-rate was unpleasantly speedy, she couldn't help feeling a strange sense of pride at her victory against her adversary. Just as Pandora had hoped; the use of Azrael's title (as it was in hell) had scared Nisroc into leaving Lilith alone and into complying with her request.

The more she thought about it, the happier she was. It was almost surprising that Azrael had chosen a plain human over such a striking immortal woman – turning to someone nothing more than a child to his own age rather than seeking solace in someone he had probably known for ages. _Almost._ For at the same time, she wasn't surprised at all. Her warden was picky, and he had better taste than to try and drown out his sorrows in a woman with a reputation no better than that of a cheap harlot. She was flattered, really, that he had chosen to turn to her; looking for life and for love, instead of mere pleasure and distraction.

But as she rounded the corner and came to a stop in front of the ornate, beautifully carved door that was the entrance to her angel's suite, her happiness swayed toward nervousness. What if he didn't approve of her attempts to cheer him up? What if she took a misstep? What if he didn't respond at all? Attempting to swallow the lump in her throat and lip between her teeth, she opened the door and stepped inside – taking a deep breath to prepare herself for what she was about to try.

As she shut the door behind her, eyeing the door to the left which led to her guardian's rooms, she adjusted the thin robe that served as her warmth; wine bottle tucked under her arm, and, with a stubborn tilt of her chin, set her eyes forward.

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**Hello again! Told you it'd be a quick update this time! Hopefully the next one will be too. **

**Mmm...not much to say about this chapter, and no responses to reviewers either. **

**The next chapter is one I think many of you MH fans will appreciate for many reasons. One of which is fanservice XD Tune in next time for that!**


	9. Red Wine and Chocolate

**Chapter 9: Red Wine and Chocolate**

Recommended Listening: "Where You End" by Moby and  
"Teenage Dream" by Katy Perry

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"_I didn't really think you were God. God damns suicides."_

The sigh left his lips in a rush, forced from his lungs to take wing upon the air as he grudgingly set his book aside. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how any times he shook his head hard enough to grant himself whiplash to jostle it from his thoughts, he could not distract himself from the harsh remembrance of the girl-child's words of damnation and forgiveness. They pressed upon his mind tiny weights packed by sounds that were perfectly meaningless without interpretation. He couldn't focus on his work that way; not with such a distraction to make him struggle for attention, repeatedly finding his eyes rest right back where he had started.

Knowing a lost cause when he met one, he nudged the thick volume closed and tossed it gently to the rug-laden floor beside his bed, giving up on the halfhearted attempt to distract himself. There wasn't much of a choice; it was pointless to continue, but without the possibility of a potential diversion, his dormant thoughts raged on. Unbidden and assessing, the day's more disheartening events clouded in the forefront of his mind like thick, black storm clouds.

The girl had gone willingly enough, and even if she hadn't been in the frame of mood to comply with his will, her spirit had been too fragile to warrant much of a fight. Yet it hadn't been her defeated attitude that had struck him so deeply. Many of the souls he visited acted in such a manner; it was a common reaction to dying, as far as reactions went. Though not all those who displayed such emotions had been victims of violent or pitiful circumstances.

Then he realized that this painful lingering he was doing had very little any connection to the _girl_ at all. Not the soul he had _reaped,_ per say, but the situation in which he had found her.

He remembered the desire to die very clearly. Eternity was empty and consuming, filled with loneliness and the constant ache of memories he would have rather forgotten. He had longed for a way to bleed out the misery that coursed within his veins, congealing in the place of any real source of life. He had tried any means he could think of; ingested every poison known to man and immortal kind, slashed his own throat, let himself drown, shot himself, hung himself. When none of those methods had proved fruitful, he had looked for others to do it for him…just to taste his own element. Every shred of pain was a false promise of redemption for the sin of living in constant, agonizing grief. And each attempt had failed.

Every time he had felt his body grow still and his breath rattle to a stop, body overwhelmed with the peaceful darkness that was death, he had dared to hope. Every time, he found joy: the thrill of finally having removed himself from the reality of the duties he so abhorred. But it was only ever fleeting. Like the high of a drug seeping from the system, he would shift steadily back into the existence that he had come to know as his own; ever empty, ever alone.

No one with a proper understanding of the concept could call what he'd had a life. He merely _was_, without being, with nothing but a purpose that made him want to pull open his own chest and tear out the heart that caused him such an indescribable pain. And for that feeling…he was weak.

_Sinner. _

His teeth clenched, hands fisting tightly in his hair as he squeezed his eyes shut. "No," he growled, the word guttural with the breath of a curse against his own throat.

_Liar. _

That same little voice; quiet and songlike, a little bird, smiling brightly as it taunted him.

_You were always worthless, unfit for the worlds you walk in and unsuitable for the things you so desperately seek. And so you bury yourself in evil to try and displace the emptiness that eats at your soul, telling yourself that you're still righteous when in truth you're just like the rest of them. _

"Be quiet," he hissed, voice strained as he tried to block out the hurtful words with little success. There was only ever a slight chance of blocking the insults thrown by one's own conscience.

_What for? Someone needs to remind you of what you are; nothing but an imposter in a realm of goodness, a bastard son of all that is clean and decent. You deserve to be cast out like the demon you_ really _are—_

"Stop it!" His entire body and being moved as a single, formidable force, conjoining to release a wave of terrible, furious energy. He simply snapped. "I am _not_ a _sinner!_"

Azrael's vision was marbled with black and bloody red, his senses dulled for a brief instant as he swayed, momentarily wearied by the sheer amount of energy he had expelled out of temper. He was on his feet, hands clenched into white fists, chest heaving with rage as his heart pounded beneath the flesh hard against the ribs. The voice had not answered him. Victory flared, mixing with the pulse of rage to warm his temper – vengeance reigned on an old and bitter enemy as it cowered in the face of his fury.

At that moment, it was unclear which side of the angel's vibrantly shifting persona was in prevalence. Within eyes normally so controlled and confined, a monster's head began to rear.

The gentle tinkling of breaking glass forced something to click back together, guiding him out of his own illusion. Glancing uneasily around the room, he noticed that the little silver table settled in the middle of the open floor had been knocked over. Slightly embarrassed, he bent to right it again, regretting the loss of control immediately. But the little table was sturdy and already quite accustomed to his random spurs of temper – for often when he had been pining or raving, lost in thought and feeling, he had taken his feelings out on his woe-begotten furniture, mostly accidentally. The table was perfectly whole and still glittered with its usual frosty cheer, as was the little white-stone tin he kept displayed atop its mirrored surface.

The wineglass, however, had not met the same good fortune. It lay in a shambles of fragmented crystalline shards, having shattered instantly upon impact with the hardwood floor. A smear of deepest scarlet stained the flagstone floor a dark, unnatural black.

"Damn."

Pale violet fire gathered around his fingertips – leaving sparking trails behind as he drew a pair of symbols in the still air over the broken glass. Unity and binding drew the shards together, fixing them back in their original places to reform the long-stemmed goblet until it was whole once again and gently glimmering as he set it back upon the table. There was no point in salvaging the wine, all two mouthfuls of it. A single, vague wave of his hand caused the spilled liquid to evaporate and the stain to vanish. While it would have been all too easy to gather it back into the glass, the effort wasn't worth the tiny payoff. He would have needed much more than a few drops of wine to shake off the dour weight riding heavy across his shoulders.

_Ugh. _Why did he do this to himself? Why couldn't he pull himself out of the place where only dark, evil things grew wild and rampant? Why had he walked there at all? There was so much good in the world, so much that was beautiful, but then why could he only see what wasn't?

Disheartened and feeling increasingly more morose due to the shameful loss of temper, he sank back down on his bed; propping his head back on the plush pillows and stretching his legs. His eyes drifted closed as he released a heavy breath, hoping that sleep would not remain an elusive temptress to flirt with his weary, restless mind.

And then…

Movement flickered in the shadows directly outside the door that opened into his suite – someone paused outside the door as if trying to determine how to get inside. He groaned; expressing his feelings about being disturbed with a murmur of annoyance, and yanked a pillow over his eyes. God only willing, whoever it was would go away. He didn't want to deal with pleasantries or manners, and he certainly didn't feel like being social. All he wanted was sleep.

But…wait a moment. The door had been opened; he felt it like a cold draft of air breezing across his now tingling chakra veins. He sat up so fast that he was almost disoriented by the speed with which his surroundings righted themselves, and felt slightly sick. The presence entered – a soft light of bright green in his mind's sight – and he nearly fell off the bed, graceful balance completely forgotten and replaced by shock.

What the _blazes_ was Lilith doing walking through that door? Not out, but in…which meant she must have walked out to begin with, when he had specifically instructed her not to.

Surely he would have noticed? Once he calmed himself enough to reason, however, he couldn't recall having seen her since he'd left her sleeping that morning. No, that wasn't true; she had greeted him upon his return. But had he answered?

Azrael nearly ripped his own hair out he was so irrevocably seized frustrated. What in the name of everything holy could have _possessed_ him? How could he have ignored her like that – had he no sense left? Hissing a varied assortment of curses under his breath (and resisting the incredible urge to knock his head into the wall), he lurched to his feet and crossed the floor of his bedroom in a single graceful bound. He had just gripped the handle of the door when he let his hand slide away. It had turned beneath his fingertips.

"Oh," Lilith's sweet green eyes widened slightly when she opened the door and saw Azrael waiting for her. The expression etched across his handsome face was composed of both surprise and concern, a mix edged with a hint of some tight-fisted violence that could have been anger. One look at that face and she knew that she'd been caught.

Sure enough, Azrael's hands took her by the shoulders, and while his grip was nowhere near hard enough to hurt her, it was firm enough to let her know that he was not pleased. His eyes were flushed with just the faintest bit of magenta, belying his irritable mood as he stared her down and asked stiffly: "did you leave?" She merely nodded, avoiding his eyes by hiding behind the fall of her hair, unable to look at him as he scolded her. "What were you thinking? Didn't I tell you that it's dangerous for you to wander?"

The words stung, as did the whip of the tone he used to deliver them with a voice that was normally so gentle and polite. Though the angel's reprimand was harsh, she could hear the emotion behind his words, the mix of fear and relief and bewilderment welling up behind the anger. She knew he was hurting. He meant the hard tone he used as much as he meant to strike her, nor did he mean for her to feel bad or guilty…and he wasn't angry. She didn't blame him for his worry, and she felt no hard feelings even when he forced her to look at him with a tiny, vivid shake of her shoulders. "_Why_ did you feel the need to do something so foolish?"

While she met his eyes willingly, she very nearly winced when she saw the harsh lines of her guardian's face. But it was _worry._ He was worried sick…about everything and nothing all at once, tired and unable to find the rest he sought and so badly needed. It was so sad to see such a passionate and powerful creature looking so abysmally lost. She had discovered his day had been difficult, but now – with the tidbit of knowledge that she had been outside the safety of his rooms unaccompanied and vulnerable – his mood had darkened considerably. But she was no stranger as to why, now.

He was scared; absolutely terrified at the thought of his delicate half-human ward coming to harm, and in such a dangerous world, she could definitely understand that. She wasn't annoyed by his over-protective nature, nor did she feel smothered…she felt empathy. Her heart ached for her angel guardian and his bruised, battered soul. Half-blinded by concern, wearied beyond measure by the stresses of both the past and the present, he couldn't think to react any other way….and yet, she knew he was no more angry than she was.

She smiled at him, ever so gently, and lifted a hand to brush several strands of pale hair out of his eyes. "Because you needed me to."

The intensity in his face was shocked away, replaced by a look nothing short of stunned as she stepped around him, lifting the lengthy train of the scarlet gown up around her ankles as she crossed the room to seat herself on the edge of his bed. "Come and lie down," she beckoned, and he watched in bemused surprise as she drew a tall, dark bottle out from under one arm and set it down on the table.

For a long, thoughtful moment he ignored her request, his focus on _her_ instead of her words. She had chosen an unusual raiment compared with her usual tastes; her slender figure was draped in a soft robe of a deep, rich red. It was silk-based, judging by the subtle shimmer, and a garment that had not been designed with warmth prominently in mind. The tie at her waist (ending in tasseled cord) held the front securely closed, but the part in the fabric allowed him the occasional glimpse of her curved, milky white legs. She had let down her hair; it fell in a rippling mahogany sheet down her back and framed her pretty face. And then he took a good look at the bottle she had produced…and a single eyebrow rose. _Red wine_…was this what she had gone out for?

She was smiling at him, a delicate curve of soft pink lips, noticing the direction of his curiosity. With an all-too feminine grace and a wistful slide of fabric, she stood up and took a small step toward him.

Every muscle in his body wound tighter with tension the nearer she came. His sharp nose picked up the soft scent of lily wafting from her hair and – as she lifted her hands to gather a good, steady grip on his shirt collar – the much stronger scents of mortality, femininity, and life that came from the pale skin of her exposed wrists. He swallowed dryly, wetting his lips with an agitated tongue as he tried to pull his attention away from the sugary smell of her. Something felt strange…but he followed when she tugged at his collar and sleeve, towing him to the bed and gently pestered him to be seated.

She flashed him another lovely smile, one that made something deep in his heart spasm with reply, and turned to uncork the bottle. "Lie down, would you please?" she requested quietly, and it was if her voice alone were some kind of leash knotted tight around his brain, making it impossible to refuse. Graciously, he obeyed, propping his head and upper back against the pillows piled at the wrought-iron headboard, watching attentively as she poured a generous helping of the burgundy liquid into the recently repaired (after having been recently broken) chalice. Wordlessly, she handed it to him and waited expectantly until he obliged her obvious intent and took a sip.

Some of his fellow immortals scoffed at him for drinking the mortal-made and diluted (by immortal standards) substance, but he favored the mellow flavor of earthly wine; enjoying the soft tingle it gave to the senses. It wasn't near powerful enough to intoxicate no matter how much of it he drank, but he had found that the liquid melded very well with some of his favorite foods. He drank it for the fine taste and the cultural experience, not to get drunk. If he wanted to be plastered – he'd get plastered. It wasn't as if alcohol was difficult to come by…

This particular vintage was one of his favorites, one she could only have come by in the kitchens. The idea worried him, after all Nisroc had made her position on his taking a mortal-born mate quite clear, but she seemed both unscathed and unshaken, therefore found no use in questioning her about it. He held the glass to his nose, breathing in the aromatic meld of fruit and liquor and took another sip. It was wonderful and soothing. Somehow she had known just what he needed.

Lilith, he noticed, had busied herself by fussing with something hidden by the span of her shoulders, her hands working at an object he couldn't see, but he could tell was settled on the table. He angled his head, trying to catch a glimpse, but she looked over her shoulder and caught him before he had a chance. "No peeking," she chided cheerfully. "Close your eyes and open your mouth."

One pale gold eyebrow rose, quirking with question, his lovely head tilting just slightly to the side and mussing his fine hair against the pillows. "Come again?" he made no effort to hide the curiosity laden in his voice.

"Just…please?" she pleaded, so prettily and sweetly that he had no choice but to take notice.

Her eyes were imploring emerald pools filled with everything that made even his steel-framed willpower falter and crumble. The human woman had indeed been one of God's greatest masterpieces; built with beauty, indulgence, grace, and poise. And he was a sucker for it all. Every delectable trace.

With an indulgent sigh, he took a long swallow of wine and compliantly let his eyes flicker closed, parting his lips as she had asked.

"Good, now keep them closed, please."

There was mischief in that tone, his instincts told him so; yet it was intriguing, not knowing what she was planning, what she was doing while his eyes were closed. Intriguing…and something else, something much less innocent. Something that was more along the lines of enticing. The soft rustle of silken cloth was like tuneless music accented by a clear clinking rather like that of two small stones being tapped together before silence dropped over his ears, a heavy veil of it. A firm, neutral, toneless object touched his parted lips, small and seemingly obsolete. It pressed softly, requesting further indulgence, and he allowed opened his mouth slightly wider, just enough to allow the object to be pushed between his lips. It was a small square, smooth in consistency, which began to melt upon his tongue the instant it touched the warmth. Melting as evenly and efficiently as…chocolate.

It _was_ chocolate. A small piece broken from the supply stored in the box he kept on the table. He hadn't known she was aware of its contents, though he supposed it shouldn't have surprised him – she was sure to have explored almost every inch of his rooms by now. The taste of it was dark, a bittersweet compliment to the fruity flavor of the wine still lingering upon his tongue, luscious and soothing, pleasant beyond the reach of words.

Something shifted; the weight on the bed adjusted with movement accompanied by the melody of cloth. If there was anything he could recognize in an instant more clearly than the warm, supple weight of a woman's body, it didn't come to mind, though he was, admittedly, profoundly distracted by the soft curves of Lilith's figure pressing into his own. He came within an instant of opened his eyes, but recovered quickly, following her spoken request – out of simple gratitude for the well appreciated bit of pampering or out of sheer curiosity, he wasn't quite certain which.

Slender hands slipped through the feather-streaked locks of his hair as her mouth brushed tenderly against his, a tentative tongue venturing to taste the chocolate smeared across his lips. The sweet, familiar scent of female skin ensnared his sense of smell, triggering a response in the form of delicious tension that seared its way down the musculature of his chest and abdomen. The fingers buried in his hair twisted, ever so carefully, pulling at the base of his neck to crush him closer to the soft lips lavishly molded over his own all too eager mouth. It was a moment that seemed to stretch on toward forever, yet it all happened within the space of a second. And it startled him.

His body jerked with defensive reflex as her teeth tugged gently at his lower lip, pulling away from the soothing heat of his ward's kiss and his eyes snapping open to stare up at her. At first it was mild surprise that put the color in his irises, a light, curious touch of palest blue. Then, once he'd had the time to really look at her, the color bloomed, stricken with a bright, vivid lick of shock.

While his eyes had been closed, she had joined him by straddling his hips with her thighs and leaning over his torso to share the chocolate. The situation was so utterly suggestive and so very unlike Lilith that he didn't quite know what to do. Outwardly making an effort to distract a chosen partner with the power of physical touch was more along his line of style, not hers. Charmingly prudish as she was, he hadn't thought she would have it in her. However, she did have a sensual nature buried deep underneath all her subconscious shields and uncrossable boundaries…so he supposed, maybe it wasn't so out of her range of potential.

She had noticed his stare, but she had noticed his silence even more. Though he noticed when her cheeks flamed with a blush, she allowed him to sit up by slipping onto the mattress next to him. Not only did she look adorably flustered, there was an edge of disappointment hidden discreetly behind the pillow she snatched from its place at the headboard and clutched to her chest. Disappointment, he found as he instinctively tapped into her aura, was a sad partner to hopelessness.

And it hit him in an instant – exactly what had just happened, why she had done it, and why his harried soul now felt like singing. Realizing that Lilith had put herself outside of her own (somewhat neurotic) comfort zone in order to distract him from his self-piteous misery made him feel not only lighter, but extremely grateful. She had snapped him out of his evil, destructive mood, much like one would snap a growling dog out of an instinctive urge to do so. She was upset now, not because it had hurt her to do it for him, but because she had expected a much warmer response…he knew very well that ogling her like a stranger instead of kissing her back like she deserved – like he could feel she had wanted – was not a light insult.

After setting the wineglass down on the floor, he tuned to his ward, ignoring the cushion still cradled to her breast and snared a arm around her, hauling her into an embrace worthy of a bard's praise. Burying his nose in the soft, fragrant waves of her hair, he heard her let out a muted squeak and drop the pillow. Her hands fluttered for a moment, unsure of what to do with them, until she simply relaxed and let them rest against his shoulders as he held her. "Thank you," he murmured, and the sheer amount of emotion that pressed itself through his voice nearly choked him. He smoothed his cheek over her hair, arms curving about her waist and back to cradle her against his chest. "I am so sorry, I—I didn't mean to…can you forgive me for acting like such a churlish—"

"Don't worry about it," he felt her smile against his neck. "You don't have to apologize for needing help." She twisted slightly in his arms to cast a skeptical glance at the glass he had momentarily released, nose wrinkling as she caught the alcohol's fumes. "But I don't know how you can drink that stuff. It smells like lighter fluid."

Azrael laughed, loud and clear and beautiful, and she could have cheered, it sounded so phenomenally wonderful to her ears. He released her, giving her some space before he bent to retrieve his glass and – holding it by slipping his middle and ring fingers around the stem and cradling the cup in his palm – he raised it to his lips and took another sip. "An acquired taste," he replied simply. "Once I detested alcohol of any kind, but I rather enjoy it now." With a light sigh, he leaned back against the intricate, pillow-cushioned headboard and examined the chalice, turning it this was and that, watching the play of the light across its faceted surface. "But I do not like to be inebriated, so I tend to avoid most of our liquor. I prefer mortal-made wine."

"_Can_ you get drunk?" Lilith asked, thoroughly bemused by entertaining the image of her prim and proper guardian in such a state.

Smiling wryly, he answered, "of course we can—angels are far from perfect. I have been on occasion, but the repercussions are nothing short of murder." He displayed a delicate wince at the memory, downing another mouthful of wine.

"You get hangovers? They can't possibly hurt you that badly if it's only mortal pain."

With a shake of his head, Azrael gently shifted the wine-glass to his left hand with a crystalline shimmer. "Let me put it this way. Alcohol is no more than a depressant drug that renders the body's nervous system to run more slowly and slurs the senses. Mortal alcohol does not affect our systems because we are built a little differently than you are; it just gives us a pleasant kind of tingling and warmth. But _our_ alcohol is an entirely different matter; it is nearly fifty times stronger than yours is. That, my dear," he smiled at her shocked expression, "is enough to send a mortal into a shock-coma almost the instant it is swallowed…and it has caused death in the past." With a shake of his pale head, he added, "I stay away from that unless I _want_ to hurt in the mornings. I am not a masochist."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Of course not. You won't intoxicate yourself, but you'll quite gladly impale yourself on a sword. That's not masochistic at _all!_"

He knew what she was talking about, and had the decency to at least look apologetic. "Now, that is unfair," he protested, "you're forgetting that was because I indulged in the pleasure of thrashing the bastard who tried to hurt you. You cannot seriously blame me for that, can you?"

Alcohol, regardless of its origin, had a warming effect. He was starting to shift, restless due t the stranglehold of his clothing, and undid the first three buttons of his shirt for more comfort. The stark white fabric parted like curtains unveiling a window overlooking an enamoring view, showcasing a tantalizing slice of the pale skin of his chest. The way he lounged with one leg drawn up and the other stretched out in front of him, the backward tilt of his head, and the way he had twisted slightly toward her for the sake of conversation and nearness was a near-literal command for wandering eyes to fix right to the exposed portion of flesh. Bare, the color was the natural silvery-white tone she adored so much, the firm structure of the muscle swelling gently every time he would take a breath.

She tried to look away several times, still feeling self-conscious when it came to flashing skin around, even if it was his, and feeling even worse for succumbing to the very male (or so she had thought) inclination to stare at cleavage. But it was difficult not to appreciate, and harder still to avoid letting her eyes slide to him, seeing the color she liked in place of the false color he normally wore for mortal eyes, knowing how that lithe, powerful body felt like against her own skin. He was so impossibly beautiful, just looking at him made her feel like liquid. She shook her head, firmly forcing her eyes away. "Stop it," she told him, scowling at the neatly folded sheets laid beneath their feet. She didn't like being that susceptible to something so ridiculously trivial.

He glanced at her with a spark of question in his voice. "Stop what?"

"You know what." Just barely she managed to keep from pointing like a child, choosing instead to pointedly glare at the skin he had unveiled. "You're doing that on purpose." Leaning so that her back was propped against the adjacent wall, she curled her legs around so they formed a bodily barrier between them. Yet as she did so, the movement caused the part in her robe to pull apart, red fabric sliding to bare her legs to the knee.

He was marginally confused, until he caught a hint of the mood concealed behind the shred of annoyance, felt the rush of heat radiating from her skin that was just a little too warm to be purely normal. The grin that curved with the shape of his lips was purely, decisively wicked.

He slid towards her, the fabric of his clothing shushing softly across the sheets, and trapped her effortlessly against the stone-made wall with all the sensual ease of a master in the arts of graceful movement. Lilith's eyes widened, her smaller body faintly humming with tension as he touched a single finger to the arch of her foot, just barely grazing her skin as it trailed slowly upward along her ankle. "And shall I commit the crime of which I have been accused?" He murmured, leaning closer still to let his cheek brush against her jaw, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

Lilith felt her breath hitch inside her throat as his other fingers slyly joined the first to continue edging up along the outside length of her lower leg. The caress was faint, like the sighing graze of a flower petal. Had it been anyone else, she probably wouldn't even have felt it…but it narrowed down to the simplicity that when it came to Azrael, even the smallest of touches and the softest of words were as loud and clear as a church-bell using her head for a clapper. A few well-placed sounds from him and her brain and body both were of no more use than over-heated pudding. He knew it, too, which made it all the more embarrassing.

It was a rare moment when she had control, and her grip over the situation was burning out _fast_. Wandering fingers – calloused with roughened edges that told the tale of her angel's knowledge of blade and book alike – climbed steadily upward across the line of her calf and curved under the tender skin at the back of her knee. Eager lips, both firm and gentle trailed across the soft, sensitive places at her throat, searching for the area they desired. There was no questioning he was as skilled with his mouth as he was with his hands (with academic pursuits, that is), and she had to work to find enough power in her limbs to put a stop to his persistence to lavish her with affection. She was glad that he was grateful, but she also knew that if those lips came in contact with hers one more time he would have her in the palm of his hand.

It was a catch twenty-two. If she didn't let him continue, he might be hurt because of it, after all, she had let him love her before. But she couldn't help wondering, with a horrible, guilty insecurity, whether he would be as careful as he had been whether it would even work out when they both weren't suffering from post-traumatic stress. What if he wanted more from her then she could comfortably offer? She felt awful for even thinking about it, but the question was there. And it wasn't one she felt like she could pose to him just yet.

Yes, she had wanted him to touch her, kiss her, and hold her like he always did; his touch was part of why she loved him so much, his way of expressing feeling through his body. She had wanted to comfort him, too. She just wasn't sure if she was quite ready to broach the intimate world again.

But he certainly did make it a difficult decision to make.

Her hands were light to the touch as they lifted to press against the firm, curved planes of his chest while at the same time turning her head slightly away from his determined mouth – a silent way of asking him to stop. His momentum slowed and the hand at her thigh gently stroked the unveiled skin with his fingertips, causing a barely concealed shudder to tingle at the base of her spine. "As you wish," he whispered, his voice low and soft as a feather. Then he drew away a fraction of a foot, allowing Lilith the tiniest bit of breathing space by situating himself against the headboard, his free hand winding about her waist to hold her close, unwilling to let her go for too long.

She smiled, amused and affectionate. _This_ was the Azrael she knew and loved; ever respectful, ever accepting and sweeter than a puppy. "You know," she said after she had caught back her breath, "you can tell me when something's bothering you." Folding her fingers together, she rested her hands lightly atop his shoulder as she examined his expression, which displayed nothing but absolute serenity.

He glanced at her, somewhat quizzically, "what do you mean?"

"It's just," she shrugged, "I know you're feeling stressed out and I know you had a difficult day today, I just want you to know that I'm here if you want to talk."

The smile he gave her was mild, but the gratitude behind it could have stretched on for miles, it was so pure and open. "Thank you," he said, "for your patience, and for your kindness. I do not need to talk or vent…simply having someone to come home to that does not see a monster when she looks at me is enough."

"Well, that would be me," she confirmed with a nod.

He snorted, good-naturedly, but it was still a sound which belied disbelief. "Might I remind you that you did not always think so highly of me?"

Frowning, she slapped the palm of her hand into the joint of his shoulder. "Now who's not being fair? That was your fault and you know it. You could have picked a better way to tell me you were my freaking guardian angel and…crushing on me. You split a man's skull with you bare hands for crying out—"

"All right, all right," he chuckled, lifting several fingers from his wineglass to make a slightly hobbled gesture of surrender. "Very accurate point."

Frustration molded to bemusement as she realized he had been teasing her. And so, opportunity provided, she teased right back. "What," she exclaimed, "that's it? No eloquent, clear-spoken argument about how all's fair in love and war? If Beelzebub were here, he'd call you whipped."

"Hmm…" He quirked an eyebrow and attempted to look stern, even though he failed miserably due to the hint of a smile lining the edge of his mouth. "Maybe, but my present lack of enthusiasm for debate is none of his affair. Besides, if the brat prince _had _been here you can wager that I would have thrown him out on his scaly dragon rear end by now."

Moving like a snake, he struck. The fingers of his right hand dug into her side, tickling her viciously while she shrieked and giggled; and despite how her hands smacked pitifully at him to make it stop, he was utterly merciless. Yet as he torment his ticklish charge, he momentarily forgot the placement of the still slightly-full wine glass in his other hand put it in a sketchy position, inviting accident. When she thrashed reflexively in response to his assault upon her ticklish side…scarlet liquid went flying. It instantly stained the white fabric of his shirt a blood-like burgundy and sloshed spectacularly down Lilith's front. There was stillness, neither one of them seeming able to move as the glass plopped innocently down on the pillow between them, having slipped between surprised-loosened fingers.

All of a sudden the room was filled with Azrael's rich, bell-like laughter.

Pressing her hands to the front of the robe, Lilith tried to mop up the liquid that dripped down the V-shaped gap between clothing and her skin; glaring disapprovingly at Azrael as he took one look at her, threw back his head pale, and surrendered to another gale of laughter. "Brat, you did that on purpose!" she accused, smacking him liberally across the shoulder as she did so, clutching at the neck of her robe in an attempt to prevent the liquid from dripping any lower (which was abysmally unproductive).

Upon regaining a small amount of control over his expression of hilarity, Azrael sent her a charming smile, fluttering his eyelashes in a masquerade of innocence. "Who, me?"

"Yes, you," she snapped, still scowling fiercely.

He laughed again, but with exceedingly more composure this time. "Perhaps I did…"

"Oh, you—jerk…" but her heart wasn't really in it. Though she looked peeved, it was more the annoyance of being wine-stained that made her seem that way, especially when she looked down at herself and realized she would need to wash it off. Rolling her eyes with a subdued sort of huff, she shifted and scrambled off the bed by crawling rather awkwardly over his casually extended legs on her hands and knees. When she bent forward, however, the loose, wine-soaked front of her robe draped loosely from her shoulders.

It was impossible not to look, and Azrael's eyes fell to her collarbone and sternum, noting the scarlet stain drawing a splattered pattern on her pale skin. Suddenly, he caught a flash of black beneath the red robe; something he hadn't expected to be there. His gaze sharpened on command, allowing him to focus more clearly on what turned out to be ebony satin striped inside with metal boning. Surprise licked at his brain, a sharp, wonderful trill of intrigue that shot him through with a flare of heat that couldn't quite be described as anything but wonderment.

He was certain Lilith had simply meant to cheer him up with her little quest for the wine and the elaborate method of making sure he understood she was there for him. He also had a fairly good idea why she had shied away from him a few moments ago. She had opened herself to him out of mixed relief and emotional fragility, which he had (in all honesty) taken advantage of, and she still didn't quite know how to handle him romantically. He had fully intended to honor that uncertainty...until then. No woman with serious, heavy doubts would come to an unpredictable man who she knew wanted her physically. While he had no idea where she had gotten the clothes, retaliation was the only way he knew how to respond. He couldn't let her keep questioning herself, because if he did, those questions would eventually turn back to their relationship.

He had been wrapped up in his own mind and worries for too long, and she had been suffering for it, even beyond the level she had been aware of. What he should have done was sling her over his desk the instant he'd known there was nothing seriously wrong with her. Well, perhaps nothing so brutal, but he should have done more to ensure she understood how much she meant to him

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he stood just after she did; catching her by the wrist before she had taken more than five steps and pulled her around to face him again. "Lilith…" The tone of his voice had lowered, deepened, resonated from his chest like the purr of a great cat. The edge of his thumb carefully caressed the inside of her wrist, a tender, delicate touch to delicate skin that evoked an immediate reaction of chills he could almost hear running up and down her spine. "I had no idea you have this habit of prancing about in lingerie."

Like a startled doe, she froze, staring up at him as though she had never seen anything quite like him before. Her green eyes widened as she watched his eyes darken and flush with an evocative midnight blue; a color she had come to associate with pure, raw desire. "I—don't know what you're talking about," she insisted, though she had no strength of will to make it sound even remotely firm.

Tilting his head just slightly, the angel made his disbelief known with a tiny, wicked smile and twinkling eyes. Tugging her closer despite her minute squeaks of protest, he mused, "oh, I think you do." Slowly, painstakingly, he let his fingers trail down the front edge of the garment, pausing only to grip the tie and gently pull it free.

She almost jerked away – wanting to hug the fabric tighter to her body and preserve her taste for modesty – but she didn't move, merely stood, still and quiet, waiting for his next move. She _knew_ she should have refused Pandora's offer to dress her up; but in her state of mind, the implications and possibilities hadn't seemed clear. So she had accepted, and now she felt awkward and uncomfortable.

Black satin sewn-over with a layer of lace, the corset was simple in design, buttoning up the front with tiny black pearls and hugging her torso like a second skin. It wasn't uncomfortable, really, Pandora hadn't cinched it tight enough to hurt, but what it covered of her stomach and back, it sorely lacked in other areas. The tight garment stopped little more than halfway up her chest; squeezing her torso and pushing up the curves of her breasts, a good portion of which was left exposed, framed by black and the dark waves of her hair. And as if that wasn't bad enough, the matching set of underwear more than complimented her corseted figure. The fabric clung to her hips and to the curves of her legs, riding low and then high in complimenting areas. While a skimpy enough ensemble when covered with the robe; unveiled, she wanted nothing more than to drop dead…or else simply burst into flame due to the heat of the blush that burned her face.

Mustering up the courage to look shyly toward Azrael, she found that his eyes were fixed upon the delicate curves of her décolletage, openly staring at the soft white flesh without a single trace of attention for the stain of scarlet drying upon her skin. There were spots of color high on his cheeks, which surprised her, because she didn't think she had ever seen him blush before. But then again, it could very well be nothing of the sort. He looked puzzled, dreamily so, as though he couldn't sort out whether what he was seeing was real or an illusion. "How on earth did she manage to get you in this?" He asked, inquisitive as he took in the detail of black fabric laid alongside the ivory pallor of her skin tone.

"She…how did _you_ know—?" she demanded, her voice gained an accusatory edge as she threw a question back at him.

But he didn't answer her. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten his own inquiry. He released her, letting her wrist slip from between his fingers and lifted both hands slide underneath the cloth that hung loose from her slender frame, pushing it back from her shoulders and down her arms. It fell sinuously to the floor, a ruby pool of fabric glistening on the dark wood. Then his hands, large and steady and cool, were cupping her chin, his eyes meeting hers directly, and the passion burning within them made her feel light-headed and shivery. "You are exquisite," he breathed, so softly that it rested upon her ears like a breeze. Unconsciously, he wet his lips, his tongue sliding along the carved surfaces so quickly that she shouldn't have noticed. But she did notice, and it affected her more deeply than anything he could have said.

At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to fill her hands with the soft tendrils of hair that framed his godlike face, pull him down and kiss the breath from his lungs. But she couldn't seem to be able to move, entranced as she was by the gentle curvature of that mouth. It was so lush and feminine, yet it was difficult to imagine a man without a mouth like his…firm and sharply edged, and yet somehow managing to be soft, shapely, and smooth as cream all at once. He was a living hypocrisy, and she loved every bit of it. She loved the gentleness his lean, trained body held, the way his clothes draped his carved angles and dignified figure. She loved the way his laughter filled her with an untouchable joy, the warm timbre of his voice, the way he breathed just to let her know he was there. She loved the way he looked at her – as though there was nothing else in the world he would rather see.

Perhaps it had taken her longer than he had hoped; but as time had worn on she had fallen for him, and she had fallen hard. She had never believed in things of a supernatural nature. She hadn't believed in ghosts, or in God, or in love…but she did now.

The moment seemed to stretch on for decades, thick with a silence full of meaning that could not be observed – only felt. All the while they simply stared at each other, violet on emerald, and quiet breathing. That was, until, quite slowly, his hands were sliding around her waist and readily towing her gently to the other side of the room. Toward the door she knew led to his personal bathroom. She followed both blindly and numbly; her limbs slivery and weak. "Best get you cleaned up," he said, and led her into the room.

Not quite as large or luxurious as his other rooms, Azrael's bathroom was not terribly different from ones she had seen in well-to-do houses. It had a counter with sink and cabinets, towels hung from decorative rings secured to the white-tiled walls, with extras kept in a tidy shelf in one corner. She spared a pained glance toward the alabaster vase that sat to one side of that shelf, remembering her untimely moment of morning sickness and the bile which had been emptied into it. Yet the vase was spotless, thank goodness. The bath was a wide, shallow ovular pool set into the blue-gray flagstone floor and took up the entire rear half of the room, shielded at the front by a sliding door and half-wall of frosted glass.

It was a lovely bathroom; filled with soft, pale light from the overhead globe that flickered into wakefulness as soon as they stepped inside. She wasn't allowed much time to enjoy it, however, for as soon as Azrael closed the door behind her, he had crossed the floor with all the grace of a dancer and, with a simple flick of his wrist, turned the faucet on. Warm water poured in a frothy jet from the ornate, silvery showerhead into the bath.

A delightful apprehension arose inside her, fluttering like a tiny bird trapped behind her ribcage in time to her heart. The beat was a pattering frenzy by the time he turned back to her, the light in his eyes even more pronounced than it had been earlier, the intensity inside them seeming to burn a hole in her heart as he advanced on her. "Wouldn't—" she began, and had to start over when her voice wouldn't quite come, "wouldn't it be easier just to use a washcloth in the sink?"

He was near enough to touch by then, and the scant few inches remaining between them was an avid torment. The smile he bestowed upon her was pure mischief as he answered calmly, "perhaps, but not nearly as enjoyable. Remember, dearest, this was entirely your idea. And who am I to deny the desires of my lady?"

The cool surface of the door pressed into her bared shoulders as she edged backward, and he followed, stepping closer, pushing her bubble as far as he possibly could. Oh yes, she knew what he was doing, after all, it wasn't like he had ever been subtle about seducing her. And yet, while just moments before she had told herself that she wasn't looking for a lover, but a companion, she took a good look at their history and decided…to hell with it.

He was challenging her, daring her to meet his passions head-on, and judging by the dangerous thrill of his stunningly vibrant aura, she knew that there was no backing out of it now. But she found that she didn't _want_ to anymore. The worries that he would ask too much she tucked away somewhere they couldn't bother her. When had Azrael ever asked something of her she wasn't at least partially willing to give him already? He never had. And as to her fear that they might not be as compatible without the slurry of fear and relief and regret and stress to plunge them into an amorous situation against their better judgment and/or better emotional honesty…well, their chemistry alone chucked that one out the door. They were like magnets, draw to each other.

As carnal and shallowly pointless (not to mention icky) as she had originally thought the idea of sex was; she had come to understand that it meant much more between the two of them. It wasn't confined to a simple physical lust – as he had once explained – but a powerful bond of the utmost spiritual nature, worth more than any prayer or vigil or sacrifice. Between two people who loved each other, it was as deep and true and beautiful as the crystals of ice in the winter or the new leaves of springtime. It allowed the sense replenishment and renewal, and it was in that form of total intimacy, during that open release of the self shared with another person, that one could touch the very essence of God's being.

That was how Azrael would have defined it; all genteel wording and eloquent language, and a fervor that could only belong to someone who knew.

Because of him, her views on physical love had taken on a rapid (and somewhat violent) change. Though she'd started out with the half-inherited and half-invented theory that sex was something to be looked at with distaste and to be treated with the utmost responsibility; her guardian had introduced her to a more relaxed take on the picture. If she was truthful with herself, she would have admitted that his way was also a lot more pleasant. Love was not meant to be feared, he had instructed her, but to be enjoyed and relished much like good food was. But like new foods, one had to treat love with just as much caution as the unknown…for one never knew whether poison might lurk beneath something structured like a castle of spun-sugar and marzipan.

Admittedly, she had been a horrible student, kicking her feet like a selfish child and arguing with her teacher the entire way. But with incredible patience, an iron resolve, and a gentle had, the angel had led her along the path that saw her become more accepting to the affection he so delighted in showering her with. She had never meant to let him sway her, nor had she meant to fall in love with him. It had been, however, inevitable. Inevitability, she thought, wasn't worth fighting.

Besides, what did she have to complain about? Azrael was vibrant, passionate, colorful, and full of a cultured, energetic flavor when it came to his feelings and desires. His words were thoughtful and moving, his kisses deep, his touches tender; he wasn't afraid to be soft or doting, and he showed her an amount of respect that no other man had offered. But for his loving heart and peaceful gentility, he wasn't any less of a man for those characteristics. He was a creature bred, ultimately, for war, and despite his breathtaking beauty, he was aged, strong, and powerful…and he wasn't about to let her forget it.

Reaching up, he braced the length of his forearm against the smooth surface of the door behind her. His breath was warm, scented with the chocolate she had fed him mixed with the strong, musky smell of the wine; it smoothed against her face, his natural cologne of clean musk and soft spice intermingling with the bitter sweetness. The air in her throat constricted, the breath hitching high and hard. Another liquid shudder rippled up her body, but this time the affect lingered, a sheer, delicious shimmer of delight that fluttered madly inside her lower abdomen and beckoned her eyes to close. He didn't even have to touch her…the mere power of his voice was an effortless seduction.

She wanted to melt into his arms. She wanted him to make her feel as powerlessly, beautifully adored and beloved as he had the first time she had consented to him making love to her.

"Don't pretend you can't feel me."

The sharp tip of his nose brushed against her cheek, inhaling deeply to fill himself with her scent. While she wasn't sure why he took the time to breathe in whatever smell she had, the simple act sent another glorious shiver down her back and heat surging through her blood.

"Feel, My Lord?" she questioned, the words slipping from her tongue almost without her consent, "what is it that I'm supposed to feel, exactly?" Yes, she was baiting him. In battle, the idea would have been beyond foolish; an invitation for him to rip opposition to shreds. But here, she hoped that he would take the message (unconsciously or not) and comply.

The deep growl that rumbled up from his chest startled her eyes open, bright green irises wide and unfocused, afraid that she had accidentally angered him. And yet, she didn't even manage to get a good look at his face. All sense was knocked from her head the instant their lips met, fierce possession consuming his touch as he shamelessly ravished her open mouth.

Though he did not press hard enough to bruise, the pressure he used was acutely and expertly measured to show her that he had understood her request. She had challenged his authority, purposely turning her nose up to the control he had been exerting by backing her into the wall; thus telling him that if he didn't want her to slip between his fingers, he had better put some backbone into it. It was not violent or crude, as some twittering old Victorian biddy might have described it, there was nothing truly aggressive there. The hostility was an act; a playful front to an alluring game.

The first time he had loved her had been nothing but affection and gentle courtesy, serene and sweet and easy-going. He had not pressured her and he had done everything with a delicate care. But that was only one facet of his romantic capacity, one simple edge to a being that was as complex and secretive as the universe itself. Then again, the same thing could have been said of her.

Though she was (like every young girl would be at some point) strongly attached to the kind and considerate partner, harboring a wistful longing for someone to care for and comfort her, deep down, in a place that contained the darkest pieces of the person's nature, she had always been curious about the rougher side of love. It was something she had never attempted to think over; having branded it into her own brain that sex was a bad and frightening thing to the point of paranoia. This wasn't to say she didn't have her reasons, but since the night Azrael had once explained – intending to comfort her about the subject of sin – that romantic love was practically nonexistent without the presence of physical desire, she had caught her thoughts wandering in the forbidden direction of the wilder, less-gentle side of her guardian.

She had seen that side of him before; most prominently in her memory when he had come to her rescue from the vengeful malice of hell's overseer. His entire presence had been stiff with rage, his eyes tinged with a bloody red and his voice like a blade, and though it had frightened her, a part of her had been secretly thrilled, even dazzled. Maybe it was crazy…but, then again, maybe not. He was lovely no matter what his mood contained, whether brooding or humorous or furious; and though his emotions were bold and strong, she knew who he really was. There was nothing to fear from the hands of this particular male.

Though still slightly shy, a hot blush flaming at her cheeks, she had gathered her courage and asked him. With that one baited question, she had opened the doorway that led to the massive expanse of her lover's passion. To hell (no pun being intended) with the consequences.

Azrael, on the other hand, didn't know exactly what had brought about the willingness for a less docile form of affection within her – he didn't have the gift of mind-reading. But he would have given quite a bit to know what Lilith was thinking just then.

The advances had been meant to tease her, to push her comfort zone just the slightest bit farther, just as he had been doing for the past few months. Usually she reacted with embarrassment and a shy smile, ducking her head in a way that would tell him when to shift into a loving mode – a side that was soft, sensual, and tender. He had to admit that he had been surprised when she had attacked his comment directly; addressing him with a formal title instead of his name, and then proceeding to question him, as though denying she felt for him at all. It wasn't like her to lash back at him, to initiate, to bait, or to shove her feminine charms in his face as he all too often did with his own masculine version. For a moment, he hadn't known how to respond.

What was it that she wanted? Was it her way of hinting that she wasn't in the mood or was she…_challenging_ him? It took just a brief read of her aura to conclude the answer. The pulsing green glow of life kept inside her held no traces of impatience or fear, only faint curiosity, shyness, and teasing of her own. Stunned and delighted, he met her challenge with vivacious energy.

He had known very early on in his existence that his God-given romantic personality was built upon extremes, that his emotions were deep; he knew that his depression affected his outlook, and he knew that any loving attachment he made would have to be one hell of a strong one in order to survive. Birth-bestowed common sense and wisdom had told him all of this at an early age, but his intense emotions had not served him well in the past. From the beginning of recorded time down to the ending of the Middle Ages he had been the compassionate and righteous promoter of justice. He was the Reaper; the angel who could not be tempted, swayed, cajoled, or tamed. He had held no attachments to the earth except when work called him to.

It was the coming of the Renaissance and the beauty of a young Italian girl that had signaled the beginning of his slow spiritual decay. Smitten, certain beyond any doubt that he was head over heels in love, he had courted the pretty Rebecca with the poetic grace of a love-struck puppy…but even when she had shared her love in return, she would never stand for anything but what was near constant and gracious servitude. He was subdued and sweet by nature, but that did not mean he didn't possess the ability or the want to show other points as well. Even though his rationality knew perfectly well that real love did not come in the form of being treated like a pure-bred pet, his heart would not allow him to think ill of the woman he was so _sure_ was the one meant to be his match.

When she had left him (barely more than a peasant in her eyes) for the wealthy young merchant's son, the blow to his soul had been deep and bloody. His attitude towards everything had changed…but it had ultimately been for the better. Armed with the false affection and later betrayal of his first and only other lover behind him, he had been able to recognize his feeling toward a young Lilith for what it was much sooner. After a year-long stretch of peace-keeping, curfew-ordained confinement to the immortal realms, the sight of a grown woman in the place of the child he had guarded since infancy had shocked him to the core. The love he'd held for her had turned violently on its head, father-like concern and affection banished by a new and feverish desire.

He had known nothing but shame at first, his early dreams loathed and unwanted. He raved and paced, and sought any means he could think of to be rid of the deep, trembling ache within his chest that would surface every time his wayward thought would return to the young woman his little girl had become. After another even year, however, the conflicted torment had melted into acceptance. Compared with what he had felt for Rebecca, the attachment he had with shy, little Lilith was borderline cataclysmic. She had never once even spoken to him directly, and already he was at her side in an instant if trouble arose.

And trouble had risen often – too often for his comfort. His experience- and memory-driven terror of loss had inspired him to shield her from many a boy's attentions, though she had never known he was there. The one time he had let his guard down, thinking that it wasn't fair to keep her so isolated, he had regretted it almost instantly – for the boy she became entangled with had turned out to be more dangerous than he could have foreseen. Sure enough, when a distressed Lilith had tried to put space between herself and her uncomfortably eager _boyfriend,_ the impudent child had come at her with nothing less than a crowbar and a serious flash of rage. Azrael had stepped in at the beck and call of his own icy temper, making the boy pay dearly for threatening her.

At that point he had made his decision. If he had to lock her in a tower like something out of a fairy story, then he would do it to keep her safe. If she was not capable of loving him, as Rebecca had not; then he would turn his back on the mortal heart that beat within his chest. _Forever._ From the beginning, he had known very well that there would be no other woman to match the connection he had with Lilith, and he had been fortunate. With gentle persuasion and faithful patience, Lilith had opened up to him like a flower blooming on a spring morning.

He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised by her willingness. When once he had drawn the line, unwilling to take the freedom of mortality from her, she had pleaded with him and begged him to cross it. She had given him her home, her body, her soul, and she probably would have given him her life if he would let her.

Though he had been silk and softness when it had come to loving her that wonderful November night, he sensed that her natural curiosity had gotten the better of her. Her trust in him, in his respect for her boundaries and his ability to read her discomfort – should it appear – within the span of seconds, was greatly inspiring. And as he had told her, what right did he have to deny her desires? She had healed the rift in his heart, stopped and reversed the decay of his soul with her devotion. She had gone out of her way to support him when he had needed her; thus, he had no qualms about giving her whatever she could ask for. If she wanted him to unleash the maelstrom that was his passion for her, then so be it.

Rebecca, her station and her personality, had never allowed him to access the deepest parts of his nature…and Lilith had just ordered him to. Her body was his temple, with which to pay homage to the goddess who welcomed his affections with open arms, the same beautiful creature whose delicate figure trembled with hunger beneath him.

Lilith's heart thumped hard against her breastbone, pounding, the bird beating its wings against the cage of her chest as Azrael let his head tilt slightly to the side, his mouth slanted to hit an angle that was pure murder of the most pleasurable kind. His rise to her dare was strong and energetic, his loving, teasing tenderness shifting to something akin to an alpha wolf, an animal she had always associated him with for his grace and keen senses. The tenderness was still present – she could feel the devotion and the gentleness that still reined control of his being, he had simply opened up a new prospect to the idea of making love. There was no doubt in her mind that if she found that she couldn't handle the intensity, he would pull back instantly.

She noted that he still hadn't touched her with his hands, an effort that surely must have been terribly difficult for him, torturous for his heightened need for touch. But the possessive drive within his kiss seemed to be his way of compensating for that personal challenge, to measure just how long he could stand the lack of flesh to flesh. His stamina was amazing…the skill with which he handled her, incredible. He treated the fine line between what was violent and what was invigorating as though it were a road he walked every day, knowing when to be soft, when to coax her to sighing, and when to plunder her mouth in a way that unearthed shivers of warmth deep within her belly.

And at the point where she thought she would collapse for lack of breath, he released her. His mouth caressed the edge of her lips, rosy and swollen from the enamored assault, as she gasped, trying to remember how to breathe. His teeth scraped her lower lip, another growl shuddering up from the depth of his chest, powerful fingers twitching against the wood of the door mere inches away from the tumble of her hair as she trembled in response to his comment.

_This is what happens when you play with fire, my love._

The air was thick and damp on her skin and her breath came harder than it should have. Her eyes flickered open, heavy against the drugging stupor inflicted by being thoroughly kissed, to see that the mirror had fogged up with a sheet of steam, the stone floor glittering with tiny, iridescent particles of water to create an illusion of a frost and ice that thrived under heat and light. And then she focused on him, her body stiffening as he drew back from her mouth, his long, coal-black lashes parting from high, sculpted cheekbones when he opened his eyes to meet her stare.

She could have sworn that her heart stopped beating entirely. Her throat locked, her blood froze within her veins, as irises of deepest blue-tinted burgundy fixed to her wide-eyed gaze. Familiar as she was with the range of shades his lovely eyes could span, she didn't need to search her memory in order to realize that she had never seen the color he showed her then. The same dark blue-violet they took when he was feeling particularly amorous was mixed with the scarlet of his anger. But it was not anger here. No, it was the color belonging to a wild, deep-set energy. The same dangerous excitement that she felt within his control was reflected in those eyes, a spark of flame that very nearly rendered her bones to the state of over-cooked mush.

Snatching his hand from the door, he gripped the first of the still fastened buttons of his shirt, jaw clenching with displeasure when the fastening stubbornly refused to come free. Not wanting his newfound vigor to be lost within the annoyance of frustration, Lilith reached out and touched his hand. "No," she murmured, the sound so quiet that she wasn't sure he had heard at first. But he had, and went utterly still; dropping his hand as she explained, "let me." She was surprised by how steady her fingers were as she guided the buttons from their loops, the gap in the front of his shirt lengthening until the white fabric was parted perfectly down the middle. Her eyes fixed to the curvature of his torso, feasting on the sight of so much beautiful skin, and hesitantly let her fingertips slide upward along the gently defined muscles of his abdomen.

He had no navel. She had known that already – and it made sense that he wouldn't, since he had not been birthed like human children were. The lack of indent drew her gaze for a long, lingering moment before she allowed her hands to continue along their path along his upper body to smooth her palms over the star-white skin of his chest, pressing softly, delighting in the feel of work-firmed muscle as it rippled smoothly beneath her touch.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed his fingers twitch a second time, the long, slender digits flexing around the air as he fought to keep them leashed.

When she copied the movement he had used to send her dressing gown to the floor, he adjusted to comply, letting his shirt fall from his arms as she folded it back from the angled slope of his shoulders. She lifted her eyes to his, once again daring to meet the desire that burned within the as her fingers traced back down his body to tug at his belt. Leather slid from metal clasp with ease and she pulled it free from the confining belt-loops to drop it, joining the discarded shirt. Not once did her fingers fumble while they unfastened and unzipped the front of his slacks, her touch swift and brief as she tugged the garment over his rear end and let it slide down his long, muscular legs.

The spark of fire within Azrael's eyes flared bright for a moment, but his lips slid into a gentle smile as he reached out for her. "Come, _mae'eve,_" he murmured, touching a soft kiss to her lips, the foreign word warming her like a sip of something hot and sweet. "Now it's my turn." His arms slid around her faster than she could follow and before she knew it, he had grabbed her around the waist and effortlessly slung her over his shoulder. The next thing she knew, she was being carefully deposited somewhere warm and wet, the spray of water cascading onto her back proving that she had been carried to her bath.

"What was that for?" she laughed, bracing her palm against his chest to narrowly avoid slipping on the slick tile floor, her eyes alight with amusement as she gazed up at him with a teasing smile tugging at her lips.

He tilted his head slightly, peering down at her with a thoughtful expression. Then, not bothering to answer her, he spanned her waist with his hands, cupping lace and satin steadily soaking up water with palms that skimmed upward along the line of her stomach to pause just beneath her breasts.

The grazing contact to her stomach and to the invisible mark of life growing there chilled her with remembrance. Her hands pressed more heavily against his advance, stalling him just enough to speak. "Wait, wait—can we…it won't hurt the baby, will it?"

"Not this early, no," he murmured, pushing his weight forward as her restraint eased and she relaxed. He wasn't very focused on words, but she trusted he had given her a good answer, considering how much he wanted their child to live.

His eyes were fixed to her, to the rise and fall of her breasts in time with her breath. Yet after examining the garment binding her middle for no more than a moment, Azrael gave a small shrug and, quick as lightning, ripped the first three clasps holding the corset secure apart with a simple use of his fingers. Three tiny pearl buttons clattered to the tiled bath floor, freed from their thread binding – yet though only a portion of the front had been forcibly separated, Lilith found herself completely and utterly shocked.

Delectably so.

Captivated by surprise and conflicted delight, as she was, she stared down at her front, bewildered by the brutal efficiency with which the buttons had been split. An instant later her focus shot straight back to him when she felt the warm length of his tongue drag up her sternum; his eyes closed with relish as he licked the scarlet, splattered wine stain from her collarbone and the sloping valley between her breasts.

All of a sudden, she couldn't breathe. Skin prickling with a tense, static awareness to mirror the heat pooling at the juncture of her thighs, she stepped back, her feet sliding dangerously on the slippery floor as she moved just a few paces away from him, her back once again pressing against a solid wall, this time, the tiled wall of the small room of the bath, cool and slick with water.

Her lungs were tight, her ribs beginning to ache as the water-soaked corset clung tight around her torso, causing her breath to be quick and forced. This, combined with the blush that burned in her cheeks, painted what couldn't possibly be anything but a tempting picture to someone so clearly focused on her every move. He was watching her, his eyes pinioned to the female who had slipped away from his grip, not knowing that with her lightheadedness came a curdling spark of indecision.

Last time, he'd done all the work, and he'd had to coax her along for a great deal of it. Despite where they were and how those beautiful eyes snaked along the lines of her figure with all the potent longing of a physical caress, she was still relatively inexperienced when it came to sex. Just because she wasn't a virgin anymore didn't mean she automatically knew how to please a man in bed…or, rather, proverbial bed. She had told herself to forget it, but she couldn't help the trickle of terror that whispered a constant stream of _what-ifs _into her ear. What if the last time had been a fluke? What if she wasn't really interesting enough or didn't know enough about male anatomy to really make him happy? What if he—

_Enough._

Enough self-doubt and worrying. Hadn't she wanted him to touch her again? Hadn't she at least secretly wanted to experience that same, dazzling feeling that came with the hand of physical intimacy? Hadn't she caught herself eyeing him with murmured thoughts of his hands, his mouth, his chest and thighs and…yes, she admitted, butt, when he would be sitting with his nose in a book or walking down a wintry New York street? Yes, she had.

So, then, what was she to do? He was just standing there, looking at her – gazing at her – like a hunter would something fresh, tasty, and within range. No, that wasn't fair; there was a great deal more tenderness in his face than there would have been someone merely looking for a bite of flesh. All the same, he wasn't doing anything…and she didn't understand why. She was achy and shivery and thirsty for the kind of pleasure his touch could offer, and knew very well he wanted her just as badly as she did him, surely he couldn't think she didn't. What was he waiting for? Her consent?

But, that was it, wasn't it…her angel doing his best to prove all his arguments and counter-claims to her paranoiac assumptions. He was telling her: _I am a gentleman, _regardless of what he wanted from her. Even bordering frustration, she couldn't help but think him completely sweet for it. Very well, then; she would give him consent.

Turning her head just slightly to the side, she pressed her arms flat against the water-beaded tiles walled behind her, closing her eyes to avoid the drip of the bangs being plastered to her cheeks by the spray. With a deep, full inhale, she filled her achy lungs with air so that the wire boning shaping the corset inside stiffened layers of fabric creaked, a faint, gentle noise belying the strain of her breasts against the confinement. Her body curved, arching her back under his sharp scrutiny. An attentive watch that didn't dare look away. Purposely she let her lips part, letting out a slight, soft breath of sound not unlike the cooing of a dove.

Lilith's display did not go unnoticed, nor did the subtle messages implied by the action. Of course Azrael had suffered the flush of desire expected when she had pranced out of his grasp, teased by the escape and trained instantly to chase after her. But as she had pressed her own back to the wall yet again, he recognized the position of feminine vulnerability and with it the slight touch of uncertainty. It was the snap of reality he needed to reign in the instinctual creature within him. Coursing with emotion and feeling as he was, he could not afford to read her wrongly; if he missed even a single sign that said she wasn't comfortable and he charged ahead…it would be no better than rape, and he knew it. He had been a little rough with her thus far perhaps too much so for what she was ready for. So he forced himself to wait, watching her closely as the emotional structure around her wavered and shifted, making certain that he wasn't in any way broaching upon her boundaries.

He'd only loved her once, for goodness' sake, and she had been unstable and half-traumatized. She was entitled to some breathing room. And she was entitled to tell him no, if it was what she wanted.

But it _wasn't_ what she wanted. He could see it, as soon as her aura stabilized, conclusion and determination forming a clear wall of certainty around her. She wasn't going to tell him to back off, to let her pass by unscathed by the monster she had once seen in the place of his inescapable need to touch her. In fact, she was_ annoyed_ with him; irritated that he wasn't seizing her about the hips and filling his mouth with the pulse in her throat. Resisting the incredible urge to smile he continued to wait.

What Lilith didn't understand was that intimacy wasn't about power. She didn't understand that it wasn't about the man throwing the woman to his bed and having his way with her, though that was certainly an option. Intimacy was a dance, and a complexly intricate one, and its foundation was trust. If she couldn't trust him, there was no reason to continue. If she couldn't trust herself, there was no way to continue. She didn't need him to tell her what to do, that was just the only way she knew how to love – with him as the instigator. Ever since he had shown her his face, he had been the one pushing at her, pressing and nagging and pleading and virtually throwing himself at her. She had accepted him, certainly, but that wasn't the same. This time, he wanted her to press him back. If she wanted him, she needed to tell him so.

And then, sooner than he had expected, and almost more quickly than he could trace, she did.

With a graceful acceptation, she stepped into the shoes she had always had tucked in her closet. She was far from vulnerable and now she was beginning to realize it, even if she didn't understand it in those terms. The tension of her garments was a sigh of provocation to his ears to match the one that slipped from her soft pink mouth while he watched her slide into a pose of pure, languid suggestion.

He didn't even try to hide the coy smile that curled across his lips. She had covered up her shock and unease with the guise of seduction, something she was mimicking directly from him, which led him to realize she had noticed his purposeful attempts to maximize his appearance to attract her attention. She had to know how she looked to him; scantily-clad with her hair soaked and sticking to her milky-white skin, all luscious curves and satin and sweetness…it was enough to render _any_ man insane. Of course she did. She was using it to her advantage. Perhaps she wasn't quite brave enough to make a move on him yet, but she was still making a very vivid point.

_Want me? Come and get me._

It seemed that his little bird wasn't giving him any free ground to stand on tonight, nothing without a proper price. So, for the third time that evening, he followed; stepping just close enough to feel the warmth of her flesh upon his own bare skin, and this time he wasn't going to let her get away.

Suddenly he noticed the almost labored quality to her breathing. Was the corset hurting her? Well, that was more than enough of an excuse to be rid of it. His fingers found the half-parted garment, hooking delicately beneath the two sides just between her breasts as he sought the best grip, and then pulled – tearing the remaining buttons straight down the middle and letting it drop to the tiled floor. Her gasp of surprise (and perhaps of relief to be free from the confines of the tight garment) sent heat coursing through his veins. It was thick, liquid, like an injection of adrenaline, and he reacted immediately, his hands circling her waist and pulling her close. She shuddered, consumed with the sensation of skin to skin, lush and heated and flushed. Her body curved into his to receive his embrace, her eyes fluttering closed, her palms laid over the backs of his larger, stronger hands. And there it was…

Trust. Not only in him, but in her _choice_ to be with him.

His momentarily harsh, demanding front softened as he looked at her, nearly naked in his arms; a piece of the sun given to someone who had known almost nothing but darkness for a long and lonely life. She was so beautiful, so utterly and innocently kind, so soft and fragile and wonderful. The very light and warmth of her spirit brightened the room. Not for the first time he felt a fierce gratitude flare up toward the woman that had so selflessly given herself to him…in still one more way.

God, how he loved her. She brought out the very best in him, from gentleness to kind thought, to a calm, realized reasoning that the world was not the dark, isolated place he so often cursed it for. Every moment he spent in her presence was a moment he drew closer to remember who he really was, all horror and haunted history aside. She reminded him what it was to be _alive_.

His senses unconsciously sharpened, the weight of his body pressing her back into the wall as if he were shielding her from something he could only feel lurking behind him. Often he had shielded her, his jealous, needing nature unwilling to allow his precious charge to fall to the clutches of some dirty, grasping, ill-meaning man, refusing to let another take the place of her suitor. Only _he_ could be allowed to see her as he did; laid before him like a flowering lily patiently awaiting the touch of her gardener. And he wouldn't stand for another man's hands to have intimate contact with his ward…not in a thousand centuries. She, in all her flushed, natural glory, belonged solely to _him_.

Well…_almost_ completely natural.

He pinned a vicious glare to the inconvenient garment hugging her slim hips, black and sensuous and taunting. White lips pulled back in a silent growl of protest as his hands slid down her sides and gripped at the final barrier that remained between he and his lover, fingers working to tuck between the heavy, waterlogged fabric and the soft skin of her thighs. Soft hands gripped his wrists, stilling the movement before he could shove the clothing down from where it clung to her. He instantly froze, the eyes flickering to her face sparking with a hint of sudden caution. If he had hurt her—he could never forgive that.

But there was a smile behind Lilith's eyes when she met his gaze – a quiet, teasing smile. "Not yet," she murmured, the tips of her fingers tracing up the lines of his arms to take hold of his elbows, gently maneuvering his palms back to her waist. He could do nothing but stare at her for a long, quiet moment; feeling both proud and thwarted. At first he wanted to hug her close, because for all her insecurities, she was doing her best to counter him – to step into the powerful shoes he knew she had. Happily, he wasn't too lost inside a world that couldn't pay the roper attention to psychological victories, and could give it the merit deserved.

Leaning down, he nuzzled the tip of his nose to the tip of hers. With a gentle squeeze of his hands to her middle, he said, "I appreciate what you are trying to do, but you need not play _coy _to keep me engaged." Her cheeks flushed, her lips parting with some kind of excuse or reason or variation on a fear, yet he merely touched a kiss to her mouth in order to make her hush. "I want you so much I could burst," he murmured frankly and as he calmly quirked an eyebrow at her, she couldn't help the natural reaction of harsh, quickened breath as he added, silvery-smooth: "and I guarantee that I will be most displeased if I have to suffer these things for one minute more."

Easily, he tugged free of her shaky grip and slipped the tips of his fingers between fabric and flesh, and pulled down. He could feel her shiver; her nerves alive and inflamed by the subtle scrape of well-kempt fingernails, the friction of his skin against her legs, and he relished the pulse of her bloodbeat, the fan of her breath against his cheek. The waterlogged fabric didn't want to comply with his wishes. It fought his control, conspiring against him by sticking to her skin as thought it had been plastered in place, so he pulled harder, forcing the cloth barrier down and off her hips to bare more soft, lily white skin.

She didn't try to stop him again. She seemed entranced by the affect of meeting his eyes, hearing the musical note to his voice. Working in tandem, he knew the magic he had, the enthralling compulsive, sensory feeling it could share, but this was different. She wasn't enraptured by him magically, but emotionally, physically, and spiritually; and that was why she was looking at him with such devoted tenderness buried deep behind the pleasure in her gentle green eyes. That was why the bond wrapped around them like a satin ribbon was so solid…it was real love.

Still, he struggled with the panties that refused to cooperate. As if to help him, she actually shifted forward and away from the wall to aid his efforts. This brought her lower body into much closer a proximity to his, however, and purely on instinct – and partially because he so wanted to see that same pleasurably stunned look on her face – when her barely covered abdomen brushed against his groin, his grip tightened. Pretend as he might have, though, it wasn't just a ruse. The touch shot him through with a lick of fire so scalding that he shook all over. His fingers flew, barely having to strain in order to completely tear through the seams of satin and lace that held the clothing to her. It followed the corset, dropping harmlessly to the floor.

The cold gripped her newly exposed flesh, but only briefly before it was replaced by the solid heat that radiated from his body, as though he were the star centered in her universe. He pressed her back flat to the wall behind her, her bare torso a mere whisper away from his, gripping her by the hips and shoving that luscious, liquid wonder through her straight from the touch of his skin. Her eyes flickered to rest on the pale, water-beaded flesh of his chest, sliding across the powerful curves of pectorals and abdominals, sternum and collarbone, and then fixed back to the stormy pools of his eyes. The next thing she knew, his voice was in her head; the words spun from the finest whisper-made silk united with a cry to the heavens. "You are _mine_," he said, and really, there was something incredibly amazing about being so adamantly treasured. And something else incredibly delicious about the sensation of him cradling her so completely, so effortlessly, and so passionately.

She simply couldn't help it. Divested of every defense, her body and soul laid bare, the simple, glorious sensation of his powerful male body poised above her – commanding, possessing, and exquisitely godlike – she knew her brief holding of power was gone, blown out like a candle in lieu of his dominance. He knew it, she knew it, and it was all she could do to keep from sliding into a faint. Her imagination spun with faint, glimmering images and ghosted thoughts that painted a flush of guilty pleasure across her skin while she drank in the sight of him. Naked, silvery skin, pale hair dripping and flat against his cheekbones, blue-burgundy eyes glittering with a dangerous combination of adoration, love, and un-fettered desire…God only knew what he would do to her now, this magnificent creature of power, beauty, and dark brilliance that she had called into life. The immortal being she wanted so badly that her entire body trembled beneath him, her will shattering, her very soul released in a single, breathless sigh of surrender.

All along, he had known she would bend to him – however, he was considerably pleased with her for having the courage to face her concerns head on. She had done so well, and taken such steps toward finding that sense of inner peace she would someday find, yet he knew that she was delicate and quite happy to follow rather than lead. It would be a little while longer until she could summon the nerve to attempt pushing her authority over him, which he had no doubt that she would some day.

But now was not the time to dwell on what would eventually be. The quiet sound of total submission was not only a trigger of desire made to streak through him like a bolt of electricity, but an audible cue to stop playing around and get down to business. So, he lowered his head; his mouth brushing against the curve of her jaw and sliding down as he located the ideal place at the tender column of her throat. The neck, he knew, was one of her favorite places to be touched intimately. A bonus, it was the easiest place to feel the tremulous rise and fall of her breath, and the arcing pattern of her rapture.

He was gentler at first, paying a tribute of soft kisses along the pulse line, listening to her soft, cooing murmur as she let her hands glide upward along the musculature of his shoulders. Then he used his teeth, ever-carefully biting the fragile area, just hard enough to cause a delicate, sensory flush. Not truly painful, not bruising, not breaking the skin; just enough to send the nerves into a frenzy. He knew very well that when approached the right way, a tiny touch of pain could be as sweet as spun sugar. Hopefully Lilith would concur, or he would pay a great penance for attempting it.

In response, her fingernails scraped against the taut muscle of his back as she pulled him closer, tilting her head back and freely exposing her upper body – the brief whimper she allowed to escape her lungs telling him that she had discovered a whole new appreciation for his mouth.

Strong hands gripped her by the hips, keeping her back firmly molded to the wall as his kisses returned to gentle for a moment, velvet lips and tongue soothing the marks his teeth had made, lush and intoxicating. She sighed her appreciation, fingers sliding down his back to softly caress the slight grooves of the tattoo that scrolled across his shoulder blades in dark, spidery lines. When he bit down again, harder, letting his teeth trace a vivid, fiery line down her throat, he felt blood begin to well from the grooves her wayward nails cut into his flesh. It was a good pain…sharp and clean and refreshing, and his neck arched with pleasure, like a cat nudging against his master's stilled fingers to make them move again.

Agitated and desperate, Lilith's feet scrabbled against the wet tiles of the floor while she tried to acquire a better position; one that would allow him more efficient access to the steady throb gathered in the center of her feminine being. He moved to help, squeezing on of his knees between her thighs to support her light weight, which she graciously accepted, combing her fingers through the wet golden locks of his hair when he kissed her shoulder. Azrael's hands slid over her hips to cup her by the bottom, balancing her between the wall and his own body. She jerked with slight surprise, finding herself startlingly responsive to the simple touch that sent a dazing shock of ecstasy streaking down the trails of her veins directly to that secret, wonderful place she had no words to accurately describe. Arching her back into the curve of his beautiful body and pressing her breasts to the muscular plains of his chest, she let out her breath and clutched at the nape of his neck, fingers dizzily massaging the taut muscle that stretched from his neck down to shoulders and back.

A pleased, purring murmur rippled up his throat as he smiled against the hollow of her neck, her touches relieving some of the stress from the driving energy coursing through his veins. His grip on her tightened, concentrated, pushed her forward and along the length of his thigh, hissing between his teeth with the pleasure devouring him alive when her tender flesh came in contact with the most intimate part of his body. Firm ivory lips brushed the curves of her breasts, the sensual scent of her corrupting his sense of smell with the invigorating aroma of lilies and morning dew. His tongue against her skin drew a shiver from the base of her spine. His hands, filling with the soft flesh of her rear, pressed her close, crushing her tight to the agony that was nearness. His head cradled between her palms, veins rushing with the whisper of desire and reverence, he surrendered to the purity of feeling.

He understood now why women had been worshiped so reverently and devotedly in the ancient worlds. The life and the warmth of the feminine soul and body was a nurturing support, sheltering the fragile dignity of her masculine counterpart. No matter if he was the one carrying the physical weight, no matter if he was the one who claimed authority, it was clear as glass who _truly_ held the reins of control. Cities had fallen and burned, empires torn down by bare hands and strength of will, ships had sailed, forests re-grown for the sake of women; and now he knew why.

It wasn't just because of their beauty or their grace – but their sense of goodness and humility, their inner strength, their brilliance, and their passions, their promise of freedom. It was because of what they stood for, what they could give. Every woman was sacred. In fact, the only way to bring a man to God was to bind him to a woman in every way possible. It was the only way to find redemption in repentance for the sins of long ago.

She was pulling him back up, cupping his chin in her hands as she drew him to her and embraced his mouth with her own. His eyes closed as she rained feathery kisses to his face and neck, her rosy lips brushing his starry-white skin with caresses that burned like embers. He could lose himself in those kisses, those lips, that perfect mix of gentleness and strength, the desperation that made her movements quick and jagged. And he nearly did lose himself, and surely would have if not for one small thing that raised objections to prick his conscious mind.

It was a mild flicker of warning; forcing his better judgment to appraise the situation with a grim eye. He had to pull back. He needed to wait, if only long enough to relocate to somewhere better attuned to her tastes. _He_ had no problem with a tiled wall, but she was different; and he wouldn't be the callus one and force her into discomfort merely because he didn't want to stop. "Wait—" his voice was rough, heavy with suppressed desires as he spoke, "we should move before this goes any farther."

Touched as she was by his want to ensure her comfort, she wasn't going to allow him to shift away more than a few inches. "Oh, no you don't!" She snared him by the waist by hooking him with her leg when he attempted to step back. He shot her an inquiring look; eyes haunted with a spicy spark of challenge while she firmly made her point. "I didn't do all that work and brave the kitchen for nothing. I'm not going to break into pieces or anything like that."

"But, Lilith—"

The breath took wing from his lungs, an eager bird, as she persistently rubbed her nose against the crook of his neck just under the line of his jaw, trailing the fingers of one hand down the length of his torso and abdomen to touch between his legs, brushing flesh that seemed to blaze with flame and with want for her. Her grip was gentle, her touch so utterly tender and incredibly delicate that it was barely a touch at all, and yet he could hardly remember how to breathe for the shock. It was the boldest she had ever been with him – the most outwardly sexual she had ever approached, even beyond allowing him access to her most intimate secrets. Stunned speechless and stricken with amazement, he tried valiantly to process the violent reaction of his body, which certainly knew how to answer her even if he brain did not.

Her lips curved, shyly, but happily, undeniably pleased by the way her lover struggled to regain some conscious sense of himself. Her sweet voice was a warm caress against the edge of his ear as she whispered, "just take m—"

He didn't allow her to finish. Instead, he seized her mouth in a kiss that caused her to squeak with surprise, rough and forceful and dripping with the luscious promises of consummation. The leg around his waist tightened, crushing her hand against his flesh. A sharp, shuddering gasp broke from his throat, breath hot on her lips as she anxiously wet them with her tongue.

"_Khirae…_" he breathed, hands trembling against her skin. "Have you no mercy?"

"Apparently not." She bit her lip to stifle the sudden torrent of giggles that bubbled upward from her chest and hoped he wouldn't notice.

But while he had been so thoroughly disoriented by her touch, Azrael was still far sharper than the average man. Catching her muffled giggling, he snapped, "stop that," playfully close to her lower lip. "I'll punish you for laughing at me."

Balancing her weight with one hand, his sly fingers wandered down between her breasts and across her stomach to slip between her thighs, right where desperation met pain in the form of excruciating, agonizing wonderment. Pleasure rippled through her, tearing her veins open and spilling across her skin like honey. Yet her shriek was muffled by the grip she kept on her lip, and he frowned, displeased by the careful lack of sound, and remarked, "I still need to break you of that horrible habit. Stop trying to stay quiet, no one can hear you but me—even if they could, to hell with them." His fingers flexed, smoothly and skillfully searching for the place where the heights of pleasure lay. "Now, let _go._"

She obeyed, against her own will, but she did. The cry of delight was released without restraint against his mouth as he smiled and kissed her, her hand clawing at his chest, swallowed by a pleading, piteous agony. It was cruel how easily he could manipulate her, so swiftly bringing her to a state near tears with the pain of tiny, sensitive muscles that quivered with the spasms of enthrallment, his masterful hands molding her into shape with a lazy, carefree will. The way she cried and gasped for him was despicable. She was acting like a cheaply-bought floozy…but it was just so easy to surrender to the way he made her feel.

"Not fair," she accused, glaring heatedly up at him.

"Not at all," he agreed seriously, expression dour as he adjusted again, pressing that single, tender spot that caused her such delectable pain. She cried out, her nails scraping down his chest in an unintentionally sensual manner while her head fell back against the water-beaded tiles in a dizzied swoon, ecstasy written all over her flushed face. His smile was wicked as he pulled his hand just slightly away and relished the mewling complaint that fell upon his ears like a whisper of seductive softness. "Terribly insensitive of me…shall I stop?"

"So help me—if you stop now I will_ never_ speak to you again," she hissed at him, her chin lifting stubbornly as her grasp about him shifted, wrapping and tightening about flesh more sensitive than she rightly imagined.

The skin casing her flesh pricked when he reacted, a shudder of desire rippling through her as he stiffened; every muscle – from tiny to sizeable – in his body pulling tight as the heady groan slid up his throat. He had no qualms about raising his own voice, and the sound tore with the low, grating edge of raw, physical pleasure, crying out to the heavens in her praise. Eyes flashing dark with an azure blue, he flashed a hungry grin her way, baring white teeth while he growled, "_that's_ more like it."

In another instant she had been pressed flush against the wall, urging her other leg to join the first. She supported herself by cradling his hips between her thighs, curling her calves against the smooth surfaces of elegantly-toned buttocks. He buried his fingers in the thick, dark hair at the nape of her neck and plundering her mouth with such a forceful passion that she vaguely wondered whether there would be a tomorrow.

He was shameless, fearless, grinding so evilly against her that he could have been the devil himself; a devil with a beautiful heart and a pure, gentle soul…though she could have questioned whether such lascivious actions could be considered pure. But truly, she didn't care enough to think about it.

There had been a time when she would have been terrified of a kiss like that one. The very first he had ever given her had frightened the wits out of her, even when his lips had barely touched her and his fingertips had barely grazed the base of her neck. She had feared that he would force her to the ground and have his way with her. But now, only a few months after that crisp autumn day, she welcomed the fierce, deliberate attention; her hands twining desperately in his pale hair as he brutally drew her from her normal shell of reserve into the very heights of ecstasy. He touched her freely, without reservation, without hesitation, without the apprehension that he might be met with fear; his hands forming to the shape of her figure and devoting his incredible power of focus to drive her on toward the sweet, savory rush of a loving madness. This time she was not afraid.

No, this time she welcomed what she once had feared – imploring for and desiring what once had driven her mind to shudders of a not-so-pleasant variety than the ones currently scaling her spine like fingers across piano keys. This time she wanted him to ravage her senseless; mercilessly and completely until she couldn't walk, talk, or think anymore.

With not a hint of doubt, she followed his lead with ardor, refusing to lie dormant while he teased her to devastation by filling her mouth with the flesh of his neck to kiss her way along the line of his throat, pausing only to color the air with a quiet moan as the levels set deep within her body began to quake. She squirmed, arching her back against the wall and tightened her grip about his thighs. The cries of enamored ecstasy shivered from her lungs, winding about him, tying like cords about his wrists, waist, and throat, spilling down his figure like a wave of heated syrup, spiced and honeyed.

She was ready for the pain when his body shifted, her senses picking up the slight movement of balance that lifted her slightly behind the knees and braced her firmly to the wall. Prepared for the brief spasm of hurt that would come before the rest, she forced her body to relax to ease the awkward scrape of friction. But, to her surprise and amazement, no pain came. As their forms slid snugly into place like a key into its corresponding lock, nothing but sheer, violent wonder flowed into her body.

"Ohh…" The breath rushed from her lungs, spilling against his parted lips as she pulled him closer. Her eyes drifted closed, protecting against the dizziness rooted in liquid pleasure filled her like hot sugar water being slowly poured into a bowl. Nothing – _nothing_ in the world could ever compare to this. With no pain and no distraction, there was only the glorious hunger that crushed her between two walls – one of tile and one of flesh-bound decadence. Blindly caressed the muscles of his back, neck, and shoulders; stroking the water-beaded planes of skin belonging to the man reshaping the flow of her inner strength, she nearly choked on a cry of shocked pleasure as his fingertips traced the curve of one of her breasts.

She could feel him shaking, delicately trembling under the coiling waves of need threading between them. She could feel the energy spiraling through him, seeping deep into his bones and surging through his blood, gorging on the powerful sensations of balance and pressure and pleasure. When they came to him, she too could feel the shuddering convulsions that slipped from the deepest pits of her belly to rack her with a force that could have been the very sister of misery. She wanted to cry, wanted to scream, wanted to melt into the water running in tiny rivulets down his chest and shoulders while euphoria trembled up and down her figure as, with a desperate moan, he thrust against her one final time.

It was like the blood was literally singing in their veins, harmonizing together in a chorus of elation and devastation while their lungs raced to catch up with the breath they needed. Flares of color and energy crackled between them, sparkling along the mingling edges of their auras while their bodies flexed and shuddered and strained to recover from the overwhelming starbursts of lust and devotion. Physical heaven; and it was a strange wonder that coming so close to dying could be so utterly precious.

She had never felt so close to him as she did at that exact stretch of seconds.

Azrael sighed, slumping against the wall, avoiding crushing the woman between by deflecting his weight through the forearm he braced against the tiles. His beautiful eyes were closed, his white lips parted with the patterned inhales and exhales of gradually easing ecstasy, slowly shifting out of the deeper depths of oblivion. She blinked up at him, dazed and dreamy, filling her vision with the expression of utmost peace that held his elegant features, wondering if she had ever been so happy as she was then. Her back slipped along the damp wall, sliding downward as their grip upon each other grew automatically lax once the pent-up stores of need ran low, but his arms were looping about her waist to hold her steady before she even noticed.

Though it wavered with a slight, almost invisible hitch, his voice was sure and certain as he whispered, "I love you. More than anything."

Smiling rather giddily, she dropped her head and let her cheek rest against the warm surface of his chest, just over the gently slowing beat of his heart. "It is always like that?" she asked, her sight clouded by the trails of water that slid down her face from the hair plastered to her forehead.

His laughter was soft, but lively and bright as he reached around her to slap the water off. He could have used a mental word or a simple flick of his wrist, but neither seemed to occur to him, drunk off intimacy as he was. She was both touched and rather proud to note that this was entirely her doing. Releasing her only when he was certain she would be able to stand on her own (it took her several tries, any of which ended in her knees trying to give out), he stepped back a pace or two in order to produce a pair of fluffy white towels. One of these he draped tenderly about her shoulders, the other he plopped over his head and promptly began fluffing.

Lethargically rubbing herself dry, she hummed a quiet song and steeped in her own tea of a daze; flushed contentment fluttering in her heart all the while the soft terry cloth whisked the wet from her skin. Down her arms and legs, across her belly and her back, across her feet ad between her toes, she dried and hummed and smiled. Azrael's steady hand helped her step – somewhat shakily – out the bath and onto the dry floor outside. With gentle hands, he pulled a comb through her hair, taming the wild knots that his eager fingers had twisted into the long, dark mass. She allowed his fussing, her thoughts serene and still while he finished and began tackling his own hair with a brief, amused curse while dragging the wooden teeth through his tangled golden bangs.

Breaking out of her afterglow-induced reverie, she said pointedly, "you didn't answer my question."

Azrael's smiling reply was wordless. Taking her by the hand and tugging her back out into the bedroom, he left the door propped open in their wake and told her, with no lack of affectionate mischief painted across his tongue: "There is only one way to answer that question."

He swung her gracefully into his arms, abandoning his towel to the floor and gently dropping her on the bed. Peering curiously up at him through the wet strands of her hair, she waited for his answer, quite unsure what to do with herself until his hand pressed flat against her collarbone and pushed her back into the pillows, quickly divesting her of towel with a sure stroke of on long-fingered hand.

"What are—"

"I am not through with you yet, little lady," he informed her, quite matter-of-fact as he joined her on the bed and began lazily trailing the tip of a finger along the line of her delicate neck, down her sternum to her stomach, leaving a tingling trail as he went.

Her eyes widened, mouth dropping open in surprise as she choked, "a-again?" Was that physically possible? She didn't think she had any energy left for more of his passionate love-making.

He grinned, predatory wolfishness etched into the gentle lines at the corners of his mouth as he answered softly: "of course. You didn't think just once would be enough to slake my hunger, did you? Consider, for a moment, the length of time I have been starved for a woman's flesh." In response to her voiceless, gaping stare, he gave a quiet peal of laughter and buried his face in the luscious, feminine warmth of her breasts – relishing in the breathless shriek he received in reply while his knee wedged her legs into parting for a second round of spiritual purification.

Some hours later, the pair had curled up amid the scattered, sweat-streaked sheets of Azrael's bed. He lay sound asleep, his arms cradling his half-mortal lover to his chest. She remained on the brink of slumber; that hazy, dreamlike stupor sewn with bliss, nuzzling her face into the curve of his pale neck. Content in every way she could think of, Lilith gently twined her legs with his, folding into the warmth of his body as she let herself fall into the world of sleep.

Like an endless swirl of feelings from the heights of joy to the pits of despair, every one of his dazzling emotions had been strained through her that night. She felt nearer to him than she had in weeks, and not just because she was snuggled beside him. Their bond had grown stronger with each lingering kiss, with each brush of skin, with every breath. It was strange, that such worldly a thing as intercourse could bring them so much closer to one another in such a deep, emotional way. It hadn't been about sex, but about fulfilling, replenishing, and physically showing the love they kept for one another.

After such a night, she could understand what he had meant when he'd told her that sex was anything but a sin. How could something that (under the proper circumstances) was so therapeutic and healing be considered a crime against God; especially since God was the one who had made it so necessary for survival? It made no sense to her anymore…and she didn't honestly care anymore.

All she could bring herself to care about was wrapped-up in a mixture of several things. One, their attachment had no dependency on stress to work properly. Two, everything around her was calm and serene, time wound smoothly, as if the moment would never have to end. Three, she had tied herself to a man unlike any other. And she wouldn't have had it any other way.

* * *

_Love is when thoughts of but one man fill your heart, when he means more than life to you, when you know you would do anything for him and shall die if he is taken from you. Desire is when you ache to see him and touch him; when he causes your body to burn and tremble. Desire does not demand love before it can ensnare you, but desire with love creates a powerful bond._

—Unknown

* * *

**Hello, all my lovely readers! A nice, fluffy, monster chapter for you tonight!**

**First, and most important, order of business…to all of you wonderful people who reviewed for me, I took another look at the reviews you left me, and now I want to cry. Thank you all, so much for your kind, thoughtful words. Please know, and take to heart, that without your support, this would not be happening. I love each and every one of you more than you could possibly know. I hope to hear from you often in the future so I can see how you all like the direction of plot and characters and all that! :D**

**Secondly, there are two topics I need to touch on before I shut up and start working on the next chapter. These are: sex and chronic depression. I'll start with the latter.**

**I happen to be a sufferer of chronic depression, which (as I have said probably more repetitively than necessary) Azrael also happens to be. I don't want to assume some of my readers don't have it too, because it's fairly common nowadays, but those of you who don't have no idea what it's like. I don't mean this in a snarky, "woe is me" way, but a factual way. It's very hard to understand what it is to not be in control of your own mind, to suffer from a condition which alters your feelings, personality, and judgment in such a way that it affects every aspect of your life.**

**To those badly affected (like I am, and like Azrael is), it can narrow our focus so much that all we see are the dark things in life. We don't want to get out of bed in the mornings, we can't spend time with our loved ones because we barely recognize they're there, we don't eat right, we don't sleep properly, we can't live like we should. When normal brains would think "hmm…going to these places or thinking about these things makes me sad, I think I'll stay away from them," depressive brains don't or can't. Some people may scoff still, but it is a very real condition. It takes an extreme amount of will and mental power to be able to fight it without medication. **

**I mention this for the sake of a reviewer to whom I a very grateful, for they mentioned that it seemed like Azrael was being too angsty and reclusive. I will cover more of the reasons for his condition severity later (oh yes, there's more to it), but it's really important to understand the condition first. To reviewer Daranak, thank you so much for the comment for me :]**

**Now, sex…again, I don't want to make assumptions, but those of you who are sexually active or those that are merely knowledgeable, you might know how unrealistic romance novel sex is. Orgasm in unison? Please. It doesn't happen unless that girl is one of the luckiest gals on the planet. Human anatomy simply doesn't mesh as well as we like to think it does, and I know I, personally, have been severely emotionally injured because something I thought was real and I learned from romances turned out to be a lie in real life. Rarely does intercourse turn out as smooth and graceful as it did here, or does in other stories. I have no excuses but for my romantic heart, and my wish that I could have what Lilith does. **

**Enough yapping from me. I will depart and start working afresh. I hope this wasn't too much for you all D:**

**Please, if you would review for me, I will be grateful and consider myself rewarded for what was a very difficult chapter to write originally and to fix up. Bless you, and thank you!**

**Until next time!**


	10. Roots of Blackened Scandal

**Chapter 10: Roots of Blackened Scandal**

Recommended Listening: "Masked Ball" by Jocelyn Pook, "Take it Off" by Ke$ha  
and "For Your Entertainment" by Adam Lambert

* * *

Aside from obvious reasons, hell was unlike any place Lilith had ever been before. It wasn't just everywhere you could rearrange the layout of one's rooms just by verbally saying it should be so, after all.

Azrael had done away with the dual-bedroom suite that had been set up upon her arrival, phrasing his reasons with a delicate mixture of wasting space that would be put to better use elsewhere. Instead of having to exit the bedroom and cross the library to find new clothes every morning, Lilith had only to pass his wardrobe and through the newly opened archway carved neatly from the wall adjacent to his bed to her own little private dressing room; which, while the idea had seemed somewhat silly at first, she had to admit she rather liked. She had always been private about her dressing and preparation, and it was nice not have to go very far to do it.

The small, square-cut room echoed the pale and dark blue tones of the old bedchamber. Her vanity table and wardrobe had been relocated, arranged, and matched with a floor-length, three-paned standing mirror, bent like a Chinese paper screen and framed with beautifully shaped ebony. She had pestered her guardian to no end about where he had gotten such lovely furnishings, pesterings which had only doubled in severity when he had drawn several lengthy lines through the air to sketch not only an ebony-paneled rack for shoes, but a long, gracefully made lounge sofa of Victorian taste and upholstering to add to the repertoire. Bemused by her shrieking of "too much!" he merely noted that his collection was for use, not for storing where it couldn't be admired.

He had also made a comment about wanting her to have a nice place to come back to when she had to, to make it as easy as he could for her.

He had her there, in his way. It was no great secret that Azrael harbored a deep relish for nice things, and having her own private boudoir styled like a fine, noble lady's was both strange and somehow pleasant. Not unlike the way nice clothes did, it made her feel sophisticated and important.

As she sat on the edge of the sofa, tracing one of its claw-footed legs with her bare toes and peering up at the ceiling strewn with a canopy of pale blue cloth – which was gathered at the four corners to create curtain-like accents held with silver tasseled cord – she pondered what she was going to wear with a certain chagrin.

The invite had been unexpected, but Azrael had seemed fairly pleased with the idea of attending a dinner party hosted by the crown prince, which immediately led her to believe it wasn't really a dinner party at all, whatever the copper-leafed invitation said. Most likely it was some kind of rebellious meeting disguised as a party for the sake of secrecy. It seemed like just the sort of thing Beelzebub would put together. However, for all her guardian's assurances and reassurances that she would be in no danger, that plenty of demons had their own personal escorts in the form of damned souls, and that no, he wasn't going to leave her behind when she had been cooped up for so long…Lilith was feeling anxious.

It was one thing to be aware of a hazy memory of having attended a formal event in the presence of the demonic court, and quite another to be doing it for real. But, she supposed she had made it through relatively unharmed the first time, what was the big deal? Besides, this would be a smaller venue, and a formal sit-down meal, not a socializing zoo where she'd be expected to mingle. Thank God for that.

Lilith's fingers trailed lightly across the rows of gowns and suits hung neatly in her closet (the inside of which appeared suspiciously larger and fuller than before), brushing the layers of silk and chiffon and pressed velvet. The colors shimmered and shone under the rippling touch, a rainbow of rich fabrics. As beautiful as they were, and for all the repeated words saying they were hers now, she was hesitant to make a choice. She didn't remember it very clearly, but she did recall hearing Azrael say something about the modesty level in hell being dramatically less than she was comfortable with. How was she going to choose garments that were comfortable and didn't make her stand out like a fluorescent pink duckling amid a mass of swans?

Azrael, who was having much less of an anxiety attack over his clothes, passed by the open wall on his way to the washroom and caught sight of her chewing at her lip. She was staring at her clothes in a manner that said she feared the cloth might seize her up in soft folds and strangle her if she got too close. Doubling back, he paused in the archway, leaning one shoulder lightly against the stone, and said, "whatever you choose will be fine."

With a mild leap of her heartbeat to betray her surprise, she turned to him. "I thought you said I had to dress slutty to fit in…" Her eyes lingered, momentarily captivated by the elegant fit of the silvery gray silk trousers and tunic-styled shirt he had donned. The shade was a steely, dark charcoal woven with paler threads to give the cloth a faint shimmer, and lay against his body with the grace of expert tailoring found in hidden stitches and a loosely-laced collar, a pure compliment to his skin tone.

The angel shook his head. "Showing off wealth and figure is not viewed quite the same way during court affairs as it is during others. You needn't show any more skin tonight than you wish." She took note of the long sleeves of his shirt. The only excess skin he flashed was the shallow V at his chest laced through with black, untied and uncinched. With his smile left to guide her, he went back to his own preparation and left her to choose.

Feeling more than a little relieved, Lilith renewed her search for clothes with a fresh enthusiasm. She loved playing dress-up, which was ultimately part of the fun of formal events, and knowing that she had the freedom to be as conservative as she pleased made her happy.

She knew it the moment she saw a snatch of violet at the edge of her vision and reached for the long, silky gown. It was a deep, royal purple with a dramatic neckline and wide straps that crossed in a myriad of angles across the upper back and tapered into the waist. The skirt was long and, while slimly fitted, flared loosely about the legs in a shimmering fall of cloth.

The instant her fingers met the sleek, shiny fabric; she knew she had to wear it. She stripped from her jeans and tank top, shucked her slippers, and slipped into the gown made of dream sewn to cloth, praising herself on finding something that was classy, flashy enough to be hell-worthy, and had a color that would mesh well with her guardian's outfit. She couldn't wear a bra, for the intricate back, but she didn't mind so much when she happened across a black velvet wrap fringed with delicate silver beading, which would keep her both warm and comfortable.

Half giddy with delight, she twirled in front of the three-way mirror, admiring the gentle swish of the skirt as it fell back against her legs. The gown was stylish and lovely, worth more than she deserved, certainly, but lush enough to make her feel like the luckiest girl alive. She wasn't the kind of woman to fit in luxurious dresses and high heels, she was more the polka-dotted sundress and flats type; but that didn't mean she didn't like to feel sleek and beautiful every now and then.

A pair of open-toed, slingback heels (only three inches, gratefully) in a shiny black that matched the wrap perfectly were set to one side of the vanity as she sat down and pulled a small box of cosmetics toward her. She was so busy with trying to make her eyeshadow match her gown, alternating between purple and smudge pot gray, that she didn't notice Azrael come up behind her until she saw his reflection in the mirror. She squeaked and looked up at him through the glass, blinking back her surprise as she took in the adjustments he had made to his clothes.

Over the gray silk he had donned a surcoat of a soft azure, with wide, split sleeves and a part at the left side offer a glimpse of the knee-length boots into which he had tucked his slacks – a trademark Azrael look, she realized as the familiarity nudged her. With his hair tied back in a tidy tail, he looked regal, imposing, and elegant, like an elfin lord right out of _The Lord of the Rings_. A little juvenile, but oddly fitting.

Then she realized that he was wearing a corset. A black satin, double-laced waist-corset like the ones specially made for men in older days…except that this one was for fashion, not for smoothing the waistline. What surprised her more than the garment itself was how good it looked. She could hardly believe her own brain when she thought it, but the look was downright sexy.

Human men must not have known how appealing they might look in them, she figured, otherwise they'd be tripping over themselves to get their hands on one.

She lifted her makeup free hand to run a finger down the boned edge of the corset and smiled. "Returning the favor?" she teased, blushing lightly as she did.

He arched a pale brow. "How did you guess?"

With a gentle lilt of laughter, she turned back to her mirror and to her troublesome eyelids. "Ugh…" she groused, taking another swipe at each eye with the purple. "This isn't working—"

He glanced at her over her shoulder, measuring her predicament with soft violet eyes. "Smudge the color with a larger brush," he advised, indicating a blush-brush tucked into the box, "it smoothes the shades together."

She did, and when it worked, she remarked somewhat dully, "you should give me makeup lessons someday." The laughter this brought came from across the room, telling her he was no longer standing behind her, yet she didn't look up from her task of applying a light coating of mascara to curl her lashes into a lush fringe.

"If you wish. I do not think you need it, however." Azrael's hands were gentle when he combed his fingers through the thick dark locks, wielding a brush with an easy kind of mastery as he twisted her hair back into a braided coil which he pinned into place at the nape of her neck. The style was simple in a classic, tidy way, and yet she felt like a fairy queen.

"You like this kind of hairstyle, don't you?" She asked him as she turned this way and that to get a better look. "The knot at the nape of the neck."

His lips brushed the spot just behind her ear, light and tender, with just enough pressure to give her a tiny shiver of pleasure. "Yes, I do," he answered quietly. There were times when he could tell her how beautiful he thought she looked without having to utter a single word. She envied his eloquence most especially at times like these, for she had very little capacity to return the favor any way besides blushing spectacularly and filling her mouth with either nonsense or, much worse, her proverbial foot. He didn't seem bothered by her decision to say nothing – he surely noticed said blush – but he did reach over her shoulder and set a wooden box about half the size of a standard shoebox onto the vanity before her. "Pick whatever you would like."

Lifting the lid with careful hands, she looked down at the mound of jewelry packed inside the velvet-lined case with a mixture of awe and uncertainty. "I can't—"

"Lilith…" his voice was patiently quelling, hushing her argument with just the barest use of sound. "I assure you, if I had any concern or care for the value besides for that of beauty, I would not have offered, _ne?_"

She swallowed in attempts to dislodge the lump in her throat, which only worked a little, and reached with tentative fingers into the box of pretty, shiny things. Delving delicately, color combinations and pattern possibilities filtering through the options, she pawed through the selection of necklaces and earrings and bracelets until she happened upon a pair of earrings that seemed call out to her earlobes. Silver beaten and twisted into curled shapes reminiscent of Victorian architectural flourishes was dotted with small gems of onyx. Perfection slid into earlobes through French hooks and dangled to brush her jaw-line when she moved turned and slipped into her shoes.

Azrael's hands tucked her wrap about her shoulders, situating it so she could drape the fringed ends over her elbows. As she looked up at him over her bare shoulder, she could read the affection and the admiration in his violet eyes; emotions which made her feel like she might burst with happiness like an overripe plum. She even sort of looked like a plum. She giggled, more because of the mental image of her plum-self than the strands of pale gold hair that tickled her cheek.

"What it is?" he asked while leading her gently through the bedroom.

"Oh, nothing," she replied, amused that her nerves were making her so silly. "I was just thinking about how much I look like a plum."

His smile was a knowing one, hearing both the anxiety and the giddiness that caused her remarks and the slight wobble to her first few steps on the hardwood floor of the library. "One with delicious taste—"

"_Shh,_" she shushed him; her cheeks flushed pink and glancing bashfully over her shoulder while he closed and locked the door to his suite behind them. While there was no one occupying the hallway, the emptiness didn't discourage her from shooting him an embarrassed half-glare (which really looked more like a plea for discretion). He was supposed to treat her like a possession, a servant and a lesser being out in public like this, which was not a front he seemed to be putting much effort into keeping up. "What if someone heard you?"

"Then that nonexistent someone would know I have the utmost respect for your physical assets, nothing more." Azrael finished drawing his lock spells and took her arm, guiding the slender length of her soft white limb to link around the crook of his elbow, where he held her secure. She met his eyes; violet irises framed by long black lashes and thin, artfully smudged lines of kohl, and could see the smile inside them. "And perhaps that I enjoy playful banter. Neither of which I have any need to hide in secrecy, I might add."

Lilith relented in an attempt to avoid taking her worries out on him and their walk descended into quiet. Though dotted with the shallow click of boot and shoe heels, the silence was an embrace of solitude wrapped in the solace of company. Alone with her thoughts, she was much more likely to panic, but it didn't seem proper to talk just now. Any topic she could think of to start a conversation with him included two words: _the baby, _and, as he'd explained to her the previous evening, those weren't words they should be throwing around casually. Since there had already been some attempts on her life and heath, adding the weight of an angel-mortal cross in her belly would only fuel whatever hatred was being directed toward their relationship – if that was what the big deal was, anyway.

Truthfully, she was already aware that there was something he wasn't telling her. But it didn't bother her any, not now. If it was important, she trusted him to tell her, and if it was about their baby, she would probably find out sooner or later. Thus, she was content to filter through her head, turning over her list of things to get done for the wedding, and then to her mental queue of songs she would be suggesting to the rest of the women for appraisal.

Having long since come to the conclusion that she would never remember the way anywhere other that a few simple places closely located to their shared quarters, Lilith didn't try to commit the twists and turns and stairwells they took to her memory. Letting Azrael lead, she trailed along beside him, lifting her train to clear the way for her already inhibited feet down a particularly narrow flight of steps that led into an open, indoor square. It was this square she remembered, because it was different from anything else she had seen in the architecture of hell.

There was an irony in the design, because as she tipped her head backward to look up at the towering peak of the ceiling above, she marveled at the similarity the area had to a Gothic cathedral. Wide and immense, the room went hundreds of feet in all directions, and along either side as they passed, rows of heavy Greek-inspired columns met in detailed stone arches that intersected with teardrop-shaped points. It was mastery in stonework, formed with sharp, angled detail at every turn. She marveled, wide-eyed, drawn to the massive chapel windows of clear glass framed in iron and towering what seemed to be miles above their heads.

Azrael noticed her show of awe when she inadvertently tugged at his arm as her steps veered to one side, toward one gigantic windowpane. Though his expression remained blank and he allowed her to approach the glass overlooking the valley, his eyes betrayed just the barest spark of the regret he felt when he joined her to look down into the abyss that was hell.

The dwelling was, in reality, a fortress of a castle built in a reminiscent style which borrowed much of its likeness from heaven's buildings. It had been dreamed into construction atop a low, shallow plateau which stood above the scorched gray of the desert, overlooking the entirety of the realm's populated area from the training grounds to the crevice in the ground way out to the west that was Tartarus, the pits of torture, and purgatory. This was by no means a charming view, though the room in which they stood was exquisite – as was much of the palace above the base-level floors of the common dwelling – and he could sense Lilith's immediate chill of aversion in the tension that gathered in her shoulders and grip as a shard of pale blue lightning sheared across the choked, sooty sky.

"It's awful…" she whispered, her horror an undisguised mask for the pity she felt for those who had no choice other than to stay. Her eyes lifted, pinning him with a look that was both sympathetic and accusing. "How can you stand to be here so much?"

He caught the double-edged meaning, the sting of dislike that told him very clearly she was blaming herself for forcing him to reside in a place she knew just with a single glance that he secretly detested. With a passive turn of a hand, he gestured around them. "Not all of it is so cold or heartless. I have my ways of coping." With a delicate touch to the back of her wrist, he implored her to forget her self-blame. "I would endure it with or without your presence; however, it is much more pleasant with someone to abhor it with."

Lilith's eyes were sorrowed still, echoing the weight of her mood. For a still, hushed moment she merely looked at him, decoding the underlying implications of what he had said. She just looked, silent and appraising; until she turned her soft green eyes back to the windowpane and the wasteland beyond it. "I'd think heaven would be _warmer,_ at least," she mused while surveying the icy, barren landscape that lay beneath them, a chill with an unknown origin snaking its way along her skin. Her fingers dug into the plush velvet of the wrap tucked about her elbows. It was a signal of feeling that did not go unnoticed.

As Azrael put his back to the cool glass, she was surprised to hear him murmur; "not necessarily."

"What do you mean?" she questioned warily.

The cloth of his surcoat sighed with the bend of his arms when they crossed in front of his chest, the sound of expensive, generously cut fabric playing in harmony with that of mild displeasure. His expression was guarded, suspiciously smooth; the lines of his face porcelain and too-regularly pale, but she could sense it wasn't the predecessor to a diversion from the topic. Having taken her wishes to heart, he had finally ceased trying to hide matters from her. Or, at least he was making the effort to this time. "I only know that while many of my fellow seraphim may support my decisions as far as my relationship with you goes, but not every member of the angelic host keeps the same or similar opinions."

When he moved, it was to step away from the window ledge and toward the double row of columns – thicker than the trunks of the Douglas fir trees she remembered from a long-passed trip to a national park. The deep, dusky blue swirled about him, geared into motion by the stride of his long legs, entrancing with its infusion of silk threads to give it a certain liquidity.

Her response was one of bewilderment and alarm that she didn't bother trying to conceal. "Are you serious?" she almost choked on her own voice, but it didn't stop her from trotting gingerly after him and gripping his arm when she had managed to catch up.

"Upsettingly so." The tone was bitter, carried with the same sour note as the hinted shade that prickled at the edges of his irises. "Prejudice exists everywhere and humans are sometimes regarded as somewhat inferior. Now that I have made you a hybrid, that prejudice would be increased."

"Are you actually saying I'm safer in _hell_ than I would be in heaven?" she pressed him, incredulous. It wasn't that she doubted his claim that angels could be prejudiced, because she didn't. Anything with an advanced enough mind to create and invent and exist with such knowledge as angels could had all the imperfect likelihood to have such dark marks in them as humans did. They just had a better disciplinary structure than mortals. But she simply couldn't wrap her brain around idea that she could possibly be better off somewhere home to what lay outside that window than an immortal paradise.

Azrael's eyes sparked, shot-through with streaks of fuchsia to label his shock. "No," he answered, clearly startled by the question she posed. "No angel in their right mind would lay a hand on you…their sense of propriety would not allow such an outward disapproval of a seraph's actions. But they would talk, and often talk can be more harmful than being struck." He gave her a wry smile. "You cannot tell me a girl who survived high school has no idea of what I speak."

Lilith's conceding shrug-nod combo was unhappy, but it was proof that she understood him. Often he spoke of the relationship between the two immortal realms as though they were opposing political sides. Perhaps it was best for her to think of heaven as a party with varying levels of liberalism, moderation, and conservatism to each angel. How many times had he reminded her that just because heaven was heaven didn't mean it was the nicest place, which included its native citizens? Enough for her to cringe and try to keep the things he confided in her closer to heart.

"There are demons here without such reservations as to your wellbeing or my decisions," he continued, and the way his voice drew the air close about them, as though to muffle the hush to his voice, did not escape her. "However their general fear of any retribution I might bring should harm come to you at their hands is—for now—enough to prevent any harm from coming to you. Besides, I do have friends here, despite what it may seem, and they will assist me in making certain you remain safe."

While his assurances toward her safety tempted her to believe, she knew there was a chance of something happening no matter how many spells and watchful eyes he stockpiled around her. There was a difference between an assurance and a promise, which she well knew, and he had given her no verbal contract that she would never again be in danger – he knew better than to offer a promise that might go sour. She knew he meant well, just as she knew he would do everything his power to keep her sheltered and protected. Yet she worried just how protective his more important obligations would allow him to be.

In a way, she felt this bitter little thought was unfair. It wasn't his fault he was an active general for part of the angelic host, nor that the threat of war was becoming a more serious one (despite the two sides dancing around actually starting one). And still, she thought it, hating herself as she did.

What if something happened? What if another incident like the one with Malik occurred…and their baby got hurt?

But she couldn't afford to think like that, it was neither healthy nor beneficial. Plus, faith in even things that weren't expected to be positive sometimes altered the path of many futures.

The warmth of Azrael's hand curving against the small of her back gently dragged her out of her thoughts and back into the relative comfort of the present. He was peering down at her, his eyes shaded with just the faintest touch of concern amid the pools of violet, and smiled only when she did so first, his porcelain mouth curving softly and sweetly as a sigh. "Come," he bid her, pulling her onward, "we are already late."

Casting one last, cautious glance back toward the wide windows, Lilith allowed herself to step forward and walk through the cavernous, cathedral-chamber. They rounded a corner, making their way out from under the gaping, exquisite molding of the arched threshold and into a slightly narrower hallway that spread both right and left. There were no torches lit at either end, which blocked any vision of what lay beyond the yawning shadows. But there were two large, blue-glass lamps blown into the shape of flickering flames clutched by the claws of an intricately carved pair of dragons, both of which perched atop the banisters of a flight of stairs descending to the next lower level.

They were so detailed, down to the tiny scales of obsidian that rippled and shone – polished rather than dulled like the rest of the realm's walls, floors and ceilings – with clever, knowing eyes and a faintly European-slash-something-else taste to their bodies. She touched one, running a finger down the ridge that ran down its scaly back.

When she turned back to him, she saw that Azrael's eyes were soft as he led her to the stairs, alight with a fondness that encouraged something in her heart to leap with a silent reply. Then she looked down and forgot all about the warm thrum of the pulse in her veins.

The flight of stairs…was _enormous_. Like the antechamber they had left, except that in the place of giant sized steps the staircase itself just seemed to go on forever. It was like the kind found in royal palaces, and the kind of palaces found only in high-budget films; widening steadily as it declined gracefully toward the floor, the banisters curving and twisting to form a second pair of lantern-bearing dragons. The polished marble slabs of the steps seemed to engulf her feet as she met them, the echoing click of her heels pounding in her body like a second heartbeat. One composed with a symphony of overwhelmed awe.

Azrael took to the steps without hesitation, and she followed him readily, trying to rein in the sheer intimidation she felt squeezing at her insides. Grandeur pressed in around her from all sides. It was like she had been thrust into a world she had only seen in the most fanciful of her dreams, and still she felt the repeated mantra in her head, whispering: _I don't belong here I don't belong here I don't belong here. _Her angel was right, hell had its share of beauty, but it was a cold, pitiless kind. She couldn't help but compare it to a soulless void.

There was something about this part of the dwelling that made it chillingly clear where she was. It was impossible to stand in these halls without a complete acknowledgment of it being hell: and all that implied.

The lights flickered, then waned, drowned in the shadows of her own consciousness.

A window gaped open, overlooking a ruby sky. There was no sun, no moon, no nothing, just the red streaked with wine and with blood and the gauzy curtains that blew, buffeted gently by a lazy breeze. The man sat upon the windowsill, perched with a keen, easy balance that would have been precarious for human weight. He gazed out across the sky-scape as it rippled with an ebb and flow not unlike a watery tide, motionless and beautiful.

Oh, yes, he was beautiful.

The silver band about his thigh glowed against the white of his skin, countered and complimented the raven black of the hair that tossed about his ears and neck, the elegant musculature of a man honed by an artist's careful tools. And yet as he spoke, there was something about his voice that caught the listener, held them in its grasp, hypnotized.

"As it was in the beginning—"

She could feel his lips as they formed the words – literally feel them, their smooth, carven shape, the fuller curve to the lower, the coolness, against some part of herself that ached as it touched her. The words sank into her skin, melted upon her bones to hum with dormant energy. It sang inside her, trilling, arcing with electricity.

Blue eyes, paler than sapphires and truer than diamonds, lay like a lover's hand against her cheek as they turned toward her. Laying waste to what was left of her, what didn't feel as though it was dying in the cage of her flesh, she gasped, dragging in a breath that tasted of jasmine and hot metal.

"—is now, and shall ever be."

Her foot descended onto air, jolting her body with the shock of gravity shooting from the pit of her stomach. Righting quickly, she found the step without falling, blinking her eyes rapidly to the sudden adjustment from red-sky-in-dark-room to the staircase and the blue-tinged lamplight. Back right where she had been, as though nothing at all had happened. Confused, she faltered, her eyes flickering to Azrael to see that he hadn't seemed to notice anything strange or unusual. He was still walking steadily down the stairs, face forward, with no sign of having felt her slip into a dream.

She felt a little queasy and lightheaded. Maybe she was more worn out than she had originally thought? No, it must be more than that; this time, she hadn't fainted and a vision had come. And yet, was it worth making a fuss? After all, it wasn't like anything bad had happened…

Gulping back the urge to pepper him with her questions, she bit her lip and ventured forward, making a mental note to keep track of these strange waking-dreams for later. They were more curious than troubling, and that curiosity was what she wanted appeased. She would ask him eventually. For now, she was content to put it out of her mind and focus on the task at hand.

She looked up – gathering enough nerve to brave the stairs without trying to data-code her path so that she couldn't trip – just in time to watch two people come into view as the base of the stairwell. The delicate muscles in her back and shoulders tightened, stained by an instantaneous flare of unease that crackled along her spine. Seized by the recollected idea that she was supposed to be a damned soul (which implied a beaten-down sort of servitude) and therefore had no right to have such an intimate-looking place next to her guide, she backed off a few steps, allowing her arm to slide from Azrael's grasp and lowered her head. Her eyes, however their appearance, strayed to the strangers.

It was the man she saw first, dark-haired and pale; a combination that struck her with a strange sense of déjà vu until she realized he couldn't possibly be the man from her vision. Without being told, she knew that he was a demon, and a high-ranking one. The rich, sable and ebony of his robes belied a story of both wealth and subtlety and suited the smooth cream of his complexion, the dark shade of the mahogany hair. Hair pulled back in a half-tail from his sharply-carved, aristocratic face. Yet what gave him away was not his overall appearance, but his eyes.

She couldn't see their color for the dark cloth tied about his head like a blindfold. The chill she felt gripping her insides was drawn solely from the way she knew the strange man was following her – could _see_ her – regardless of his apparent blindness. His gaze was a light, inquisitive touch to her mildly bloodless face. And…somehow her unease seemed to melt away. The fact that the man's firm lips curved with a faint smile had only a little to do with it. Then there was the small, redheaded girl padding along next to him, her hand clutching his sleeve and her large, curious brown eyes surveying the angel and his ward.

Azrael's gaze contained puzzlement for a mere moment before he realized why Lilith had pulled away. He smiled at her, held out his arm, and murmured; "fear not, Mastema is a friend to me."

Though she did hesitate, Lilith's hand crept along the line of his elbow to curve around the offered forearm, shrugging more warmly into her wrap as she caught up with the angel's courteously slowed stride. He led her down the remainder of the steps until they reached the floor, upon which Azrael raised his voice to greet the two other people. "Mastema," he nodded respectfully and affectionately to the man, who inclined his dark head in return. To the redheaded girl with her emerald dress and golden hairpins, he remarked, "and Miss Emily, how is my old mentor treating you? Well, I trust?"

Lilith watched the other girl's milky cheeks light with a deep blush upon being spoken to and felt an instant pull of camaraderie toward her; she, too, after all, knew how daunting it was to be on the receiving end of Azrael's charismatic focus.

"Oh…" The girl named Emily ventured a cautious glance toward her escort before her somewhat off-guard expression was wiped away and replaced by one of utter, cheerful delight. "He suits me just fine, Your Lordship—I mean, You Grace. We get along like two fish in a pond." She tugged playfully at the somber-faced demon's sleeve.

Mastema's smile remained faint, but Lilith could tell just by looking that the expression was one of immense fondness. For his rather intimidating exterior, with his hawk-like nose and intense face, he exuded a measure of gentleness and calm that was impossible to misinterpret for anything threatening. When he lifted his head, his intentions of greeting her in turn clearly written in the way he moved, Lilith felt her early trepidation abandon her completely. "And you are Lady Lilith?" he said with a voice that was mild and cultured, and somehow he managed to make it sound like a polite question with the very real knowledge that his assumption was correct.

She ducked her head by way of a hello. "Yes…" She was very proud that she didn't squeak. "Nice to meet you."

He was still looking at her when she lifted her head, his hidden eyes lingering on her in a way that reminded her very much of the way Beelzebub had; sizing her up and reading all the little, intricate details that would catalogue her in his mind. Yet the longer he looked, the more relaxed she became, instead of the other way around. The approval and acceptance was so profoundly evident in the demon's aura that it was almost strange. It did not, however, go unappreciated.

By the time she realized he had looked away, she was already walking, and being towed along beside her guardian as the two immortal men meandered along the path that led to the dining hall. She clicked hurriedly along under the all-around understood pinch of lateness that apparently wasn't considered a fashionable trait in immortal society, gathering some of her skirt in her empty hand to ease her walk, which was a little tricky considering the semi-slippery state of the fabric.

"Your guardian has told me quite a bit about you," Mastema said in his soft way.

Lilith blanched, answering almost without thinking, "that's…kind of embarrassing." She shot Azrael a flustered scowl, not sure whether she appreciated being discussed with strangers behind her back.

The dark-haired man offered her a small smile, and somehow she just knew the eyes she couldn't see were twinkling behind the cloth. "All of it raving with positivity, I assure you."

From behind the Emily met her eyes, sharing a small, good-naturedly annoyed smile. "You get used to them talking like they're all-knowing gurus," she assured the other female and non-immortal, before pausing to add – with a wry, amending sort of twist to her lips – "though, it never gets any less annoying."

Gentle laughter colored the air with the men's voices, a flavor that hinted of amusement and the appreciation of a good (and pragmatic) joke. Smiling back at the girl, Lilith mused that she might be turning into a fast friend, and decided that it might not be such a bad dinner after all.

* * *

"Here is where I leave you," he had said, "enjoy the meal, and perhaps get to know Miss Emily?"

This was, of course, before he had left her to run off with Mastema to enter discussion among a group of dignitaries.

To be fair, he had informed her of their imminent separation ahead of time; the night before, to be exact. But that didn't make her any happier about it. Feeling antsy, she claimed the chair beside Emily's and sat down before she managed to do anything clumsy and embarrassing, clutching at her wrap and surveying the room with inquisitive eyes.

At first, her gaze strayed back to Azrael at least once every few seconds – between examining the four tables set adjacent to one another in a perfect square, the fire-pit sparking and roaring with warm orange flames at their center. But as she gradually acclimated to her chosen spot, she began to relax and take in the surroundings with more gusto. There weren't that many people in the room, certainly not near as many as she had expected. For some reason she had imagined a large gathering, which would call for the description of a formal dinner, yet there must have been no more than thirty bodies.

She caught Pandora's eye, exchanging a smile and a wave from halfway across the hall, where the medic was chattering with a lean, fairly attractive demon man with vivid plum-colored hair and a slim young woman who had the vague mark of a human about her. She recognized Beelzebub too; though he would have been difficult to miss in his ensemble of white and bright blue, riddled with mesh. The prince came up behind the woman, settling his chin atop her wheat-blond hair and grinning with a pleasantly malicious glee when she jerked away and scowled at him.

Her eyes wandered; watching a man with a sheet of white hair walk by upon the legs of a white tiger, then a woman with rich auburn hair dressed in revealing garments that made her blush to look at them, with fingernails that gleamed like metal. There was a young male who had a long, thin tail that ended in a stinger quite like a scorpion's, his body riddled with the sheaths of knives, another with a deer's proud rack of antlers springing from downy, fawn-brown hair. A woman with the ears, paws, and tail of a russet fox was deep in discussion with a small girl (or what looked like a girl) whose skin was the exact shade of a black pearl.

To her own amazement, she found them fascinating and lovely; all of them, even the scary ones. When looking at some, and their alterations from the standard "humanoid" mold, she questioned whether the modifications could truly be considered deformities, or curses. Sure, they were demons, their company scattered with the damned, but that didn't make them all bad, could it? Black and white didn't describe even this facet to the overall scheme of things.

She was wondering what it might be like to have a tail of her own, when a quiet chime rang, just loud enough to be heard over the mild din of mixed conversation, and the demons and their guests began meandering to their seats at one of the four long, oaken tables. A flash of blue coaxed her into to looking to her left and watched as Azrael took his seat at the head table beside Beelzebub, his eyes bright with amusement as he listened to the demon prince prattle about something under his breath. Mastema took the seat on the prince's other side, which reminded her of Emily.

Turning to look at her companion, she found that the sweet-faced girl had her eyes on the stoic, straight-faced demon man. Her dark green gown put a certain glow in the crown of red curls arranged atop her head; human red, the warm orangey color of flame. Lilith hesitated; she knew that look, had probably looked that way herself more than once, since infatuation was difficult to conceal. But in the end decided to ask, even it her conversation turned out to be unwelcomed. "So, you're Mastema's…?" She let the question hang, realizing she wasn't certain what to continue with.

Luckily, Emily blinked her soft brown eyes and finished for her, "aide, yeah. I make sure his paperwork is filed and sorted properly, keep track of his meeting schedules and appointments, fetch his tea…" She laughed, "basically I'm a glorified secretary."

Lilith breathed a silent sigh of relief, heartily glad her uneasy pause didn't seem to have been noticed…and very glad she hadn't been able to voice any of the words she'd had in her mind, for the relationship she had partially assumed resided between the girl and her escort. She felt a little guilty for the assumption, but considering she hadn't exactly been educated thoroughly in the various relationships that existed between demons and damned souls, she supposed it was a tolerable misstep. She blamed Azrael for making her believe everything was sexual. Darn the man.

"How long have you been with him?" she inquired, genuinely curious about the only other real human-immortal bond she had ever witnessed.

Emily squinted up at the ceiling, thinking it over. "Um…I think it's been a few years now. Time's different here than it was when I was alive." It sounded so strange, but the words came naturally and easily to the girl's tongue.

"Are—" Lilith self-consciously tucked a stray strand of hair behind an ear, cringing at how incredibly ignorant she must sound. "Are there many souls who work with immortals? I mean, how common is your type of relationship?"

"Oh, it's pretty common," Emily answered genially. "Well, not exactly like me and Masty, but those lucky enough to be given lighter sentences are given servant or grunt work to do instead of being sent to Tartarus." Leaning closer to Lilith and shielding her mouth to any onlookers in a distinctly conspiratorial manner, she added, "I was a lucky one out of the lucky ones to be hand-picked by a Specialty as a personal aide."

Recognizing a piece of vernacular she didn't know how to define, Lilith repeated, "Specialty?"

"Sorry—a high-ranking demon; like members of the Council, military officers, or heads of office like the scribes."

"Oh…" Lilith fell silent, feeling awkward and naïve.

She jumped when an arm reached over her shoulder to put a plate down I front of her and looked tentatively up at the middle-aged man who served her as he withdrew his arm to present a second plate to Emily. The redhead thanked him graciously, as Lilith (who normally prided herself on her restaurant manners, since Alice worked as a waitress) should have done. Glancing down at her dish, Lilith discovered a small salad of spinach and orange segments drizzled with a vinaigrette dressing. It was sprinkled with toasted pine nuts and the jeweled seeds from a pomegranate.

Food reminded her of the kitchens and the demoness who ruled them. But she put the thought of Nisroc out of her head. Recalling that utensils were to be used from the outside inwards toward the plate, she took her salad fork and took a bite. It was, typically, delicious. The flavors burst inside her mouth, bombarding her palate with freshness and the color of a miracle garden.

"Anyway," Emily took another bite of her salad, which (as Lilith noticed when she took a flickering look about the room) was the same as her own, and said, "enough about me. What's it like living with an angel?"

Lilith was infamously uncomfortable in social situations outside of her circle of friends. She was slow to coax into conversing openly and even slower to encourage into relaxing, yet as she gingerly and haltingly described the nuances of her relationship with Azrael, she grew increasingly more comfortable the more she talked.

She learned that Emily's curiosity stemmed from Azrael's reputation for keeping solitude, his suddenly broken standard for living without companionship. It was something that the entire realm had viewed with some surprise, his showing up at the early winter social with a woman, considering he had never touched a soul before. Emily said it was because of his well-known nature for being a romantic that their involvement had gone over so gracefully. Something Lilith didn't doubt for a moment. It wasn't as though she was the first woman he had ever been with, after all.

As the first course faded into the second, then third, Lilith and Emily were chattering like good friends about art exhibits and the wrongs of the women's clothing industry between bites of roast lamb, baked potato with sour cream and chives, apple sautéed with raisins and cinnamon, and soft, nutty rolls.

It was just when the entrée plates were being whisked away and replaced with a light after-dinner broth of savory vegetable and barley that Lilith noticed something odd.

As she had looked up in between a shared laugh over the childish, overly-worshipped tragedy of _Romeo and Juliet_, the sight of a dark-haired man caught her attention. He was neither striking nor very interesting to look at, but his gaze was riveted to the head table, and his hands never once ventured anywhere near his food. She looked closer, watching as the hand she could only barely see scrawled back and forth along the surface of…yes, she was sure of it now – a sheet of parchment.

Following the direction of his unwavering stare, Lilith's eyes settled on the head table, centered directly at the conversation balanced between her guardian and his two primary fellows. Beelzebub and Mastema…Beelzebub who was, she knew, an open supporter of heaven in time of conflict, and Mastema who she was certain stood on the same side. And judging by the expressions on the faces of all three men, ranged from serious to severe, they were – just as she had originally suspected – discussing the war, and probably information they didn't want leaving their corner of the room. Immediately she knew the strange man was a lip-reader.

How much had the spy already managed to jot down? How much of it was vital, victory-turning material? She might not have known might about either warfare or immortal political structure, but she knew this was very not good. She had to act fast.

Floundering as she was inside, she managed to maintain a cool enough head to remind herself that making a scene would do no one any good. Keeping her face straight, she whispered to Emily, "do you have a pen?"

The girl looked at her quizzically. "Why do you need a pen?"

Wordlessly, Lilith gripped the other woman's hand and used it to point under the table, directing Emily's eyes to the man scribbling away. Just before he paused in his writing, filtering through the break Beelzebub took to take a drink from his goblet, she saw the redhead's eyes widen, felt her fingers clutch at Lilith's hard enough to make her knuckles go white.

"Oh my Jesus…" Emily reached under her chair for the handbag she had stowed there before the meal, popped open the clasp, and extracted a fine-tipped fountain pen, which she laid in Lilith's lap. Disguising the need for her purse as a sudden moment of vanity and applying a new layer of pastel lipstick, she whispered, "will that work?"

"Yes." Uncapping the pen, Lilith lowered her eyes without moving her head and wrote a quick message on the crisp linen napkin neatly spread across her legs.

_Spy recording your words. _

_Far table. Fourth from center._

_Dark hair._

At first she had thought only of the fact that there was a spy. But the next two lines she added due to wondering whether they would want to know the identity of the spy, that maybe they would need to question him. Once finished, she folded the message-napkin into quarters and turned to beckon the server taking care of the two girls.

He paused mid-walk to the kitchens and came toward her with a small bow. "Miss?"

"Would you take this to His Grace Shinigami, please? It's urgent." Doing her best to look like the flustered girlfriend feeling neglected by her date and impatient to return to their room, she placed the napkin in the server's outstretched hand. Both girls watched him like a pair of raptors on a vole as he made his way to the head table and presented the message to Azrael with a second, much lower bow.

The angel accepted the napkin with an expression of subdued surprise, the sapphire of his surcoat catching and holding the lamplight as he turned back to the table and unfolded the message. Lilith didn't realize she had been holding her breath. She didn't realize it even when her chest didn't ache without air, she just stared, her eyes fixing the image of Azrael's smooth, flawless face as he read her words. When violet eyes glanced up, veiled by coal black lashes, to follow her direction to the spy's seat, she felt her lungs move, filled with more relief than oxygen.

His smile was feigned, she knew it, but as he laid the napkin down upon the surface of the table and slid it sideways for the other men to see, all the signals his body gave off were proud, amused, and just edged with a hint of bragging. The fine white curve of his mouth moved, saying something that made the two demons laugh…and she was struck by the truth of what an accomplished actor her guardian actually was. It made sense, in a way, considering he could never be truthful when he walked the mortal plain, but she had never really thought about it before that moment.

Good for him, she thought, for turning her warning into a note from his lover pleading to retire for the evening.

As if he had heard her, as if he had somehow known exactly what her lips hadn't said, he turned his golden head to her, let his beautiful eyes rest upon her face, and mouthed: "soon."

While she knew very well it had been a part of his act, and while she also took in the way the three men turned to discussion that veered far away from talk of battle plans and strategy, she couldn't seem to focus on anything but the way he had looked at her. Behind the bemusement of a man placating an impatient partner, his gratitude had shone through, thanking her for her watchful eye and ability to keep calm enough to be an informant. She flushed with the pride of having been useful, and with something that was just a little closer to pleasure from the warm weight of Azrael's powerful gaze.

When he turned those eyes back to his more immediate companions, she was free to seek out the spy in question. The dark-haired male had gone a sickly reddish white with rage, foiled at his own game. He stood up as if to abandon the barren hunting ground, but a firm hand pressed him back in his seat before he had a chance to run. Lilith didn't know how Beelzebub had called for his guard, or how the guard had gotten there, but she recognized the faintly blurred outline and crisp, steel gray uniform of the figure making certain the traitorous wretch went nowhere fast.

Meeting Emily's eyes was to share a sense of relief that went beyond the simple happiness gained from a job well done, but of achievement. In catching the spy and warning their war leaders they had perhaps prevented espionage at a critical time…in delivering the agent himself, they had ensured not only an increase in the care kept between powerful people, but in insurance that this particular spy would never again deliver stolen information to his master.

Gradually the adrenaline two women had shared dwindled under the soothing knowledge of an averted crisis, which allowed them to sink back into quiet, enjoyable talk. Over dessert of passionfruit-dappled crème brulee, they discussed the pros and cons of college literature classes and exchanged stories about teachers they had both suffered and enjoyed.

Though there was to be one final course – consisting of coffee, tea, and post-meal alcohols, and mints – Azrael excused himself and his ward. His insistences that he was both weary and bordering on grumpy were highly amusing to Lilith, who couldn't put his name in the same remote area as the word grumpy without wanting to burst into hysterical laughter. Pleading a need for rest, and murmuring goodbyes and goodnights to friends, old and newly discovered, they left the minor banquet hall to return to their rooms.

Azrael's presence was a pulsing heartbeat beside her, glowing with measures of pride, confidence, and gratitude. As she slipped her hand into his, she noticed that when he looked down at her and smiled, it lacked the tiny sliver of surprise that had so often been there before; hidden, but deep. When had it vanished, she wondered? Had his faith in her affection solidified when she had said she loved him?

He squeezed her fingers, gently but surely, and she laid her head against his shoulder just long enough to convey how good it felt to be near him again, away from the noise and clatter and crowd.

Lilith had never felt so invaluable. Yet it didn't quite escape her notice that she had contributed to a cause she couldn't yet fully understand.

* * *

It was midnight in Montmartre, and the sheen cast by the night lay to rest all the flaws and fallacies made brutally vivid by the daylight. Nature's airbrush-work was done by the moon's strokes, her hand painting delicacy and smoothness over the hard lines and shadowed eyes of the world and its occupants. In places such as these, where economic strife hit the lowest and delved deepest, it was not a loathed affect.

She had been an angel once. With that title came a certain respect and a certain moral obligation to piety and grace of mind, but for those who had lost their way, sometimes medicine came in strange forms. That, in itself, was a funny notion – funny in the "ha ha" way – because, as everyone who had any clue about truth knew, God worked in ways just as strange…interesting how so many preached that common proverb (or whatever the hell it was), and yet so many who said it had no idea what it meant. Angels, like humans, could lose track of themselves just like any human. It was just that forgiveness didn't come so easily for the angel that subsided to drugs, homicide or perversity.

Balael hadn't fallen to any of these things; she had fallen to a love given to the wrong man – if one so beyond care for anything as pure as love could be called a man. And yet, for her fall, she was neither bitter nor regretful. As she liked to think: faults and the mistakes made because of them showed how someone really was. And Balael was simply not meant to be a pious immortal. She was far too free of a spirit.

That was why she naturally tended to gravitate toward places like these; nightclubs and alleys filled with the kind of human soul that drank up on alcohol to blind their miseries, even for a little while. The people who consumed their petty thoughts with lust and obscenity and greed were easy to prey on, and easily convinced that what they saw was no more real than any of their other fantastical dreams. By the time she stepped out onto the stage, they were so beyond conscious reckoning that they wouldn't have remembered the impossibility of it even if there hadn't been magic present to make certain.

And she wasn't alone. Many an immortal has-been took to the side of human nature that was less inhibited by rules. Whether due to the harsh reminder prudence and impressed virtues served, a mimicked version of the heaven they could still remember, or because it was simply more fun, the reason wasn't well publicized.

Azrael had never really developed a taste for the bulk of human nightlife. It reminded him too much of things he would rather have never known, but he did admit the décor and style of the infamous club was appealing in its vintage-stitched way. Appreciation was one thing, but it didn't mean he had to linger, or draw attention to himself or his immortal draw. Cloaking himself in the guise of a relatively boring middle-aged man in a three-piece suit, he maneuvered, unnoticed, through the queue of bodies waiting anxiously for admission and toward his quarry.

From the boxed balconies lined with brocade curtains and walls studded with flashing lights swiveling between floor, stage, and various alcoves featuring entertainment options aside from the main attraction of scantily-clad dancers with trailing ribbons in their fists, the entire show room was nothing short of a spectacle. He had no time nor interest for them, nor the skin they so freely offered the faces glued to their direction as though puppets bound by the will of a single master. Forward he plunged, weaving through the sea with a direct and measured patience.

The air was heavy with perfume and alcohol and sweat, a musty, cloying odor that he had to mask in order to keep from gagging. Strobe- and patterned lights played with shadow and color, creating textures and depths that had never existed. Yet despite the interior crammed with patrons of both tourist and native alike, looking for thematic scenery or a taste of showcased flesh wrapped with an exotic flare, he pressed on, ignoring his mental adjustments of discomfort. Had it not been important, he wouldn't have bothered. As fortune would have it, he didn't have long to search.

The demoness hadn't yet stepped up to perform. She had, however, gathered a pack of hungry wolves to stare in rapture as she sipped absinthe and poured over her deck of cards. That was a bit of irony, calling human boys with a taste for the extreme, painted, and violent wolves when all she had to do was lift a hand to sever the lifeline inside their bodies. She was telling fortunes, a sideshow sort of niche with which to add to the eclectic mystery and majesty of a world and a time the men swarming her would never truly know or understand. But they packed in close, straining to hear her whisper the future of the boy who had surely just turned nineteen (old enough for drink in Europe). They latched on to every word, every slight shift of her figure while she shuffled and dealt and flipped, every flicker of her eyes with the rapture of those bespelled by something more earthly than a magical touch.

Dressed in vintage corset and tight, vinyl pants which matched the patent shine of her stiletto heels, flashing the skin of her legs between the laces that crisscrossed down from her hips, she was the guise of artfully-arranged beauty and tight-laced dominance. The customary paint about her green eyes and expressive mouth, black as pitch, only added to the appeal of a danger. She looked up, alerted to his presence by her own magical awareness, and he noticed the design scrawling across her cheekbones from her lower lids was, in actuality, the words _love _and _hate _written with eyeliner.

He could feel the compulsive energy she used to turn away her avid admirers as he would have felt a subtle rustle of air, a sigh of magic, and wasn't surprised by her willingness to shoo the attention away. After so many countless years of being the untouchable persona with fae beauty and the magnetic pull of immortality, the attention gained from their human counterparts tended to become a little droll. Taking the seat beside her, observing the lay of the Tarot cards lined up on the table before her (a spread which promised good fortune and a promotion in the working world), he mused, "do you find it annoying?"

She grinned; a curve of her lips so wicked that it could have charmed a fish right out of a cat's mouth. "_Nein,_" her hand was steady as she swept the cards into a neat pile and folded them back into her deck. "They feed me well, the little darlings."

Balael was what the ancient or superstitious Chinese would call _Jiang Shi; _a chi-vampire. She gained strength from the loose, uncontrolled and unmonitored spiritual energy of humans, mainly when they were casually active and expelling it on their own, but she did have the power to drain them completely dry if she chose. She hadn't had the gift when she had been the angel of penitence. Some said that was because her madness had awakened the dormant talent by unlocking something in her, like autistic children had ways of accessing more of one part of their brain than the ungifted, self-proclaimed normal, people. It was why she was such a formidable force to have on his side; she got uncontrollable urges to pull all the chakra from any immortal that pissed her off.

He could do the same, as could a few other well-educated mages, but there was something inside Balael's power that made the regeneration of the chakra she stole excruciatingly difficult. Not to mention painful…but pain was material, and unimportant.

Knowing this didn't deter him, even though his errand was one she wouldn't like. He did hate to mention something that would hurt her, because for all her eccentricities, Balael had been his first lieutenant and was now an ally, but he had little other choice. Anyone else he could have asked was biased in ways that could put his ward in danger.

She was knocking back another glass of liquor, the green of it a poisonous shade so complimentary to her eyes that it was almost poetic. That was when she caught the edge to his aura and fixed those pale eyes on him, her gaze penetrating in a way that was impossible to deny. Yet she said nothing, merely waited, motionless and staring at him from behind the curtain of her hair, a wry smile still imprinted on her mouth.

"I apologize," he murmured, a lulling breath backed by the coursing tempo of the music and the cheers of inebriated patrons for the sake of the dancers. "But I need details on Mandragora's birth."

All traces of Balael's smile vanished in an instant.

Bracing, he waited for her temper to flush the atmosphere around them with the powerful rage that had transferred from her and into the daughter spawned from rape and insult, the daughter which now resided, with the other six embodiments of sin, in the halls of hell's palaces. The sins were byproducts of a coupling between two demons, the first unfortunate seven who had been born with severe inclinations toward their sin of choice (though, of course, it hadn't been a choice at all).

Balael remained silent. Her hands, however, scarlet nails curling and movement harsh with her anger, delved into her deck of cards and withdrew three cards, unveiling them one by one as she slapped them onto the surface stained by spilled wine and the ash of old cigars. The Moon, the Tower, and the Three of Swords; lies, catastrophe, and pain. The entire, awful story could be written with those cards alone, paired only with the tremors of rage that coursed down her body and shivered through her aura like ripples upon water. "_Was __willst du wissen__?_" she whispered, and it was incredibly calm, a voice forged with self-control.

_What do you want to know?_

He wanted to tell her, _everything_, but knew such a request would be insensitive, bittery rude. He didn't have the heart to be so cruel to her. Of course, had he been the one raped by the offspring of his former lover out of spite and cruelty, and then been forced to give birth to the child conceived by that awful encounter…he couldn't blame her anger. Yet she also seemed to know he had good reason for his invasion to her privacy, for she had neither set him aflame nor refused to answer. Her eyes were clear of all but a tinge of baleful, carefully guarded fury as she eyed him, arms crossed in front of her chest. The ropes of shiny black beads looped in varying lengths around her neck shone eerily with the green light that flooded the room, staining the air with the color of absinthe.

"Was the pregnancy irregular?" Was his first question, unhindered by anything but the worry that just managed to peek past his shields.

She didn't quite catch it, merely snorted and quipped: "According to what, a human's?"

"Yes."

His reply was earnest, and he didn't snap back at her, merely awaited an answer with a polite, apologetic patience, his eyes soft and hopeful. Balael let out a breath, visibly soothing herself away from the reflex to lash out. It was something that surprised him only slightly. Considering the nature of his inquiries, most who knew her would have turned tail and run, fearful of the infamous insanity that supposed had overtaken the less rational side of the demoness' mind. Yet while this madness was, indeed, real, it was also much pickier about when choosing to show itself. She had to be truly in a rage to succumb to it.

"Shockingly, yes," she told him, and her tone was subdued, factual, leaving the emotional quakes behind in a place where it couldn't interfere. "I was pregnant for five months, which is a little early, but there was no abnormality, not even when I went from soul to shell form and back." She shrugged, "even when I was trying to kill it."

"And the delivery?" Azrael pressed on, pretending he hadn't heard her admit to attempting to kill her own child by traveling from one plain to another.

The look she gave him was only lightly miffed. "Went without a hitch. 'Course," she gave a harsh crow of laughter, an abrasive sound that was more dry amusement than anything else negative, and slapped a palm flat against her right thigh. "I've got the curves to make it that way."

He hadn't realized he was holding his breath until he inhaled in the wake of his relief. The demoness was making a joke, therefore the danger had passed. "I_ am_ sorry," he murmured, his eyes lifting to meet hers as she turned her head back toward him, violet circles traced by soft, carefully smeared lines of kohl.

She shrugged, lifting and dropping her bare shoulders enough for him to catch a glimpse of the words she'd had tattooed along her shoulder blade, just above the thin line of the scar – all that was left of her left wing. _Abyssus Abyssum Invocat,_ written in bold black gothic letters made a cold companion to the remaining wing-mark of gracefully arcing feathers along its opposite side. Hell calls to hell, deep to deep, one misstep to another; a damning quote, a chastising reminder of ghosts that had never fully died.

"I know you are," she told him, and winked one black-lined eye. Hate was striped with the sooty lines of her lashes for a short, sweet moment of perfect symbolism.

Her fingers made a creeping, crawling gesture across part of the table before snatching up an untouched glass of liquor. She didn't bother with the slotted spoon or alcohol-drenched sugar-cube, which would be ignited with a spark of flame and allowed to burn itself into the glass for further flavor, which was so popular among tourists seeking the Bohemian history of the club. Balael drank her liquor straight, unaltered, and after taking a sip, offered him the other half.

Azrael declined, choosing to remain hindrance-free for the evening. He did, however, order a glass of mineral water from the server at her rounds.

Just then, out from the hidden corners shrouded from the breech of any wayward light like a creature shaped from midnight, a streak of silver emerged as if drawn by the call of applause being bestowed upon the performers. Beelzebub paced his way along the curtained wall stretching behind their sheltered table, dressed all in black. His look for the evening had been designed somewhere in between a priest and a 1940s fascist soldier, complete with leather straps, sleek, clinging shirt and boots that reached his thighs. The expression which had his lip curled with a faint smile told a tale of pleasant dishevelment in the manner of one recovered from the heights of physical bliss.

Straddling a chair, the demon prince gave Balael a quick peck on the cheek and stole from her reserve of drinks a single glass. "Thanks for the drink Hatter, dear," he chirped to her, flashing her a roguish grin from behind a heavily styled wing of silver hair, swept punkishly to veil half his face.

With a smoldering smile, Balael leaned forward and grabbed hold of his empty hand, using her skillful grip to pry the glove from his fingers and the buckled armlet from his wrist.

"Be gentle with me," Beelzebub pleaded sarcastically, only to let out a yelp when – having nuzzled her face against his skin – she sank her teeth into his wrist. "_Holy _fuck!" he shot her an incredulous look, which said very clearly that being bitten hadn't been expected. "What the hell is _that_ for?"

Drawing away just enough to pin him in place with piercing green eyes, the female offered a cool smile, a trickle of blood lining the edge of her painted mouth. Her grip was tight, her nails digging into the back of his hand deep enough to cause the flesh to whiten beyond even the natural shade of marble skin, and when she spoke, it was with a lilt of laughter that chilled both suddenly avidly listening men to the bone. "I'm not your dear, little prince," she cooed, the hint of song underlining the notes of her words making Azrael's blood run cold. The hint of mania was well concealed, but it stained her voice with a childish eeriness that was more than just unnerving. "Don't play with me, sweetie pie."

"Ok, ok, I got it!" Gingerly nursing the congealing puncture marks left by Balael's sharp teeth, he pulled his wrist from her grip and muttered, "crazy bitch," under his breath.

Azrael remained expressionless. He knew why the demoness had reacted so brutally, but he wasn't going to explain it to Beelzebub – closest friend alive or no, it was none of his business. Besides, it would only hurt Beelzebub to know the main reason why Balael could never quite bring herself to fully like her prince was because of his treacherous snake of a father. Beelzebub had a great respect for the older generation of demons abiding in his court, and Balael was no exception, to know that she still saw in him something of Lucifer's disregard for everything good would have been devastating.

On the other hand, Balael's grudge was not against the prince, and therefore her temper remained restrained in his presence. She knew he was a good monarch and she knew the subjects of hell needed his skill for organization and ruling; the main reason she had touched him at all was merely to keep the little bastard in his place…which, Azrael admitted, was something he deserved every now and again.

It didn't matter either way, because after the moment of tension, Balael had turned her attention to the next act appearing on stage – a magician with very little real talent aside from his slight-of-hand skills when it came to making his assistant's clothing disappear – calm as could be, as if nothing had upset her. She sipped at her hoard of drinks and tapped her toe to the heavy pulse of the music backing the magician, who was being praised more for his lusty appreciation for his work on stripping his assistant than anything else. Beelzebub shifted in his chair to face the pale-haired angel disguised to all but the other two immortals as a middle-aged man with a careworn, sophisticated façade.

"So, what was it you called me here to talk about?" the demon inquired, brushing a speck of dirt or dust from his sleeve. "Something wrong?"

Having to lock down all subjects of a private, sensitive, and potentially dangerous nature, Azrael's intent to formally announce his news to the important people who would have supported him had been cut short. Alarmed by Lilith's discovery and ousting of the spy just waiting for juicy bits of strategy and gossip, he had deemed it too hazardous to make the announcement in a public place inhabited by demons, even ones those he trusted said assumed they could trust. It had been a harsh reminder that a joyous event such as an inevitable birth of a baby fathered by an angel was something that could be used against him.

That crucial fact in mind, Azrael had sent a spark of a request to his friend to share his news. He hoped that Beelzebub would be able to offer him some advice as well, considering the dragon prince knew his dragon father's systems of information-harvest better than most.

Shaking his pale head, the angel reassured his friend. "No, nothing is amiss. Just that I—well…"

"Our_ Engel_ is going to be _ein Vater,_" Balael chimed in, leaning back in her chair to offer a smile and a wink for Azrael, who gave her a nod of thanks.

Beelzebub looked absolutely flabbergasted, which was both hilariating and somewhat odd, his tawny eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. "Seriously? Lilith's pregnant?" Azrael nodded again, in assent, and while Beelzebub managed to remember that his mouth could indeed still close, the demon retained his look of inebriated shock. "Well, fuck me…you're sure it's yours, right?"

Violet eyes narrowed viciously and a snarl began to rumble from the depths of the angel's chest, displaying Azrael's displeasure with the implication that his ward had been unfaithful, regardless of the fact that he knew otherwise.

"I'm just sayin'," Beelzebub added, lifting both his hands – gloved and ungloved – in surrender as the warning growl simmered into a relenting quiet. "It's just…there's never been—"

"I know," Azrael sighed, raised hackles sinking back into the smooth exterior of porcelain. "But you and I both know there are some things that simply should not be questioned. Perhaps this is one of them."

With a small peal of tinkling laughter, Balael took her deck of cards in hand and began shuffling. "But you're questioning anyway, _ja?_" She leaned across the table, hands flicking cards into a spread that formed a rough box and slapped one down in the center, a flower with four petals. "Do you want to ask?"

Beelzebub's fingertip slid underneath the edge of the card closest to him, silvery eyebrow raised with curiosity and petulance. "What good'll that do?" He retracted quickly when her hand shot out to slap him away.

"Some," she informed him snippily, "or maybe none, it's not an art of certainty."

"I'm a fan of fact, myself," the demon prince retorted, then, catching the glint in his senior's eye, quickly remedied himself by adding, "no offense meant!" Azrael concealed his laughter with a muffled cough hidden in the curled palm of one hand, to which the demon glowered and snapped, "oh, ha ha. You'd suck up too if an angry hellcat was coming at you with her claws out."

Balael nodded, flicking her garnet bangs out of her eyes. "Damn right."

Still smiling, Azrael conceded graciously, "very true, I would. Thank you for the offer," he told her politely, "but I believe I will allow fate to take its course, as it seems there should be little for me to fear."

With a saucy shrug of her shoulders, the demoness swept up her cards and set them aside in a tidy pile. "As you like, _Engel. _Just keep an eye on your _liebchen, _some things may be different for a human woman, even one who's been made a hybrid, and I sure as hell don't want to turn around and find you spitting poison at me for giving you bad information—"

"I would think you knew me well enough to know I would never hold you responsible for something like that," Azrael chastised with a small frown.

Balael smiled at him in a way he didn't quite understand; a little pitying, a little bemused, with a trace of something that almost looked like envy. "Maybe…" she agreed faintly, "but somehow I think you'd do pretty much anything if something happened to _deine fraulein_." Her eyes lingered on his face, tracing the angles and edges formed by inspiration and will so long before, familiar and beloved by a fondness that stretched across boundaries neither one of them could forget.

He could feel her; feel her magic seep into the corners of his consciousness, his mind, and his heart. The touch was inquisitive in nature, not malicious, and so he entertained her curiosity. Allowing such a probing through his chakra was an intimacy that went beyond the reaches of words – yet as Azrael met the eyes of penitence, he saw again the little sister who sought his forgiveness, his mercy, and thus his punishment for what she still saw as a crime. The little sister searching for something that would make her feel whole again.

"_Ich beneide Sie Ihre Liebe..." _

He hadn't understood what she meant by that when she had said it originally, so long ago, with his hands bloodied by the wars of Rome. Now he did. Now he knew how she could envy the love he had never known he had.

In another moment, the contact broke. Her magic slithered back and away from him with naught but a faint, tingling awareness left in it place to say it had been there at all, and her eyes averted in favor of scorching Beelzebub with a scalding glance when she found him turned and flirting outrageously with the server girl.

"I've gotta go," she told Azrael, and it was the fact that she looked genuinely sorry for it that touched him. Balael didn't relish the company of other immortals when she could avoid it, with a rare few exceptions, and he was surprised that he might be one of those exceptions, considering it had been by his hand that she'd been cast from heaven and stripped of one wing. She got up and bent over, halving her body and pressing her cheek to one knee while she stretched and blinked at him.

"What are you performing?"

"An Agni Odori. Want to join?" She cackled like a mischievous sprite when he blanched and shook his head. "Oh, come on," she taunted, "I know you miss it!"

It was true, he missed the days when he'd had neither the care nor the worry to keep him away from the sacred dances like the one she mentioned, one of fire and physical expression. Conceding with a mild shrug, he admitted, "yes, but you forget I have a mate waiting at home for me to return."

Straightening, the demon woman released a sorrowed sigh. "Lucky girl."

When he stood and touched a hand to her wild garnet hair, he kissed her cheek. In that touch was all the sympathy and respect and admiration he had for her; all his pity that she could not forgive. Madness did not have the freedom of forgiveness. Yet it woke something that had been cloistered away upon mention of her ordeal, something that put some warmth back in her eyes and a smile back on her painted mouth. She regarded him with a quiet fondness, one he gave back in equal share, and patted his cheek with a small chirp that was a verbal sidestep into a different mood, and so, a different world. "_Guten nacht, Azrael._"

Without another word, she turned her back and descended into the crowd, her fingertips alight with the sparks of black fire that she would twirl and spin about her body as it curved and whirled across the floor.

"—yeah? What else d'you like to do for fun?"

The girl's scandalized giggles swung Azrael's attention back to his second demon companion and the real reason he had come to the club. He distanced himself from Balael and the river of memory she walked constantly in and out of, taking a step away from the place she represented in his past. Turning, he dropped a hundred Euro note onto the girl's platter and indicated he wished her to leave, which she did with wide eyes…though her surprised pleasure at the tip didn't dissuade her from giving her rear end a little extra sway as she walked off in her platform heels and tight fit micro-skirt.

"Oy…"

Beelzebub's halfhearted protest fell upon deaf ears. Azrael's response was to simply glance down at his friend and ask steadily, "could you spread this to the corners it needs to reach? And, while doing so, request any additional knowledge that could be of use?"

"Sure, sure," the demon's hand waved briefly back and forth, an airy, nonchalant brushing off. "No prob." His liquid eyes were nowhere near the here and now, nor the angel standing near him; instead they focused across the room, at the wide circle of dance floor and the feminine figure garbed in vinyl and steel-boned fabric whirling gracefully in tighter and tighter circles, her back arching and limbs flexing skillfully and expertly as she spun the balls of black fire, white sparks and all, through the air.

Humans with the taste for this particular feat of daring and art of motion required tools of rope, cord, or chain to harness centripetal force and keep their lighted lamps spinning and away from their tender, tinder-made bodies. Fire dancing had originated in heaven, along with so many things that might have seemed like simple human thirst for bravado. It was a haunting spectacle to watch, an art as much as a sport for the body and the mind to meld and unify, synch together so completely that the performer could go on for days and never tire. Yet it had also been banned long ago, so any immortal with a taste for it had to satisfy it on earth, or in hell; not a sin, merely something the Almighty wished to distance from her person and her realm.

Azrael took a sip of his as-of-yet untouched mineral water, his lips absorbing the cold emanating from the chilled bottle of green glass. He couldn't quite sense the iciness through his gloves, but he knew it was there, frosty and still, an interesting opposite to the burning spheres that spat sparks raining down to the treated wooden floorboards beneath Balael's feet. In the place of appreciation for her talent as a dancer, however, he felt an empty, gnawing pit of guilt.

Watching this reminded him of Lilith, and how he had hobbled her dancing shoes for the watery sake of a relationship he wasn't entirely sure she wouldn't grow to regret. Should he keep treading this path, keep taking things away from her one by one, he might wake up one day to find her no longer willing to look at him with anything but resentment burned deep into her bright, beautiful eyes. He would have to find some way to make it up to her.

Realizing Beelzebub had spoken to him; he purposefully removed himself from his thoughts and resumed his seat at the table, sinking into the chair with a soft folding of legs. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I _asked_," Beelzebub retorted with a peevish arch of an eyebrow, "what you think about the concept of a demon falling in love?"

For a moment, Azrael merely looked at his friend, studying the demon's facial expression as though scouring for a speck of dirt on an already immaculately clean surface, a speck which evaded him. He was certain there was some joke; some bit of hidden prank Beelzebub must have been hatching, because the crown prince of hell was as likely to talk seriously of love as a bird would consider spending the rest of its existence under water. And yet… As he took in the direct, mirthless set of the demon's jaw, the straightforward, shameless (but not without a shred of embarrassment) light to his golden eyes, Azrael found himself second-guessing that immediate reaction. He knew better than to make category-based assumptions about his friend. This was not the devil's child alone, after all.

He pondered the question, flicking though file after mental file of knowledge recorded and carried by a mind untouched by the ages it had passed, seeking any proof-based reason to form a thesis one way or another. Fingering the rim of the bottle's mouth, Azrael took a breath and answered slowly, "theoretically, there is no reason set in stone that a demon cannot love. All original immortals were created out of love before the Rebellion and that _would_ affect any offspring that occur from either party."

Beelzebub said nothing. His eyes had averted, lowering to the surface of the table and the place where teeth marks had bled mere moments before.

"Balael loved your father," Azrael remarked, voice soft.

The bark of laughter that burst from Beelzebub's mouth was hard and sharp, vicious for all the thick layers of scorn the short sound contained. "Yeah—and look where she is now," he growled, his gloveless hand clenching into a white-knuckled fist against the table's scrubbed, cigarette-stained surface. "Fucking batshit!"

"Perhaps, but that hardly changes the fact that she loved him."

"Until he cauterized half her heart and ate it—" The tips of Azrael's fingers laid lightly against the edge of the younger demon's shoulder stilled the violence of his rant, stemmed the fury that spewed forth. He grew quiet, content to sit and accept the silent offer of consolation.

So he had known all along. It probably shouldn't have surprised him, but Azrael had always thought Balael had hid her reasons for keeping a distance hushed beyond the reach of certain ears. But Beelzebub was perceptive, too. He also had remarkable talent in eavesdropping, ferreting out secrets, and other activities of a vaguely nefarious nature. But that didn't quite explain such a vehement, almost personal, grudging response to the bit of history; for even though the dislike for being scrutinized by the same eyes that scrutinized his father was a natural one, there was a little too much devastation, too much of an upset.

"You aren't…" Azrael paused, trying in vain to find a better way to ask his question than he already had, losing his grip on personal taste in formality as he did so, only to come up short. "…in love with her, are you?"

Beelzebub blinked, suddenly looking utterly confused. "Who?" And then he laughed; a crow of amusement that was started and half-horrified. "_Hatter? _Are you _shittin'_ me? _Hell_ fucking no, I think she's got balls for a lady—but _no._"

The relief was mild, because Azrael hadn't really believed his theory for more than half a second, but the question remained. "Then who?"

"Nobody," the demon answered breezily, swirling his drink before taking a swig. "Just wondered what you thought about the idea."

That was one hell of a lie, because normally Beelzebub could lie right along with the best of them and no one would ever know the difference, and this time Azrael could see through it as clear as if he had a bullshit meter sewn to his forearm. Leaning slightly forward, the angel caught Beelzebub's tawny eyes with his own piercing violet ones and repeated gently, "_who?_"

The demon met his gaze, unflinching and honest, but the golden eyes flickered, wavered, and looked away a second later. The metallic aura shimmered with doubt, uncertainty and a trace of shame to Azrael's sight, and when an answer came, it came with a taste of bitterness that stung. "It doesn't matter," Beelzebub said, without any real thought of avoiding the request for a name. "I can't give her what you give Lilith…it'd be stupid to try." He ran a hand over his face, pressing closed eyelids with frustrated fingertips. The line of his shoulders, normally so shamelessly proud, sunk as he slumped forward against the back of his chair, dark fabric stretching along the slope of defeated arms.

One golden eyebrow raised, Azrael observed his demon friend sulking. Beelzebub simply did not sulk. And what was the clearest sign of love: a man doing something he didn't do under normal circumstances. Perhaps it had taken him twenty years to come to grips with that reality, but it sure as hell didn't mean Beelzebub had to suffer unnecessarily as well.

"Ridiculous."

Beelzebub lifted his silvery head, liberally styled hair fluttering across one eye. "What—?"

"Ridiculous," Azrael repeated, annunciating the syllables with painstaking clarity, which was met with a scowl. "Are you really going to sit there and tell me you are incapable of loving this woman of yours?"

"Well," black-clothed shoulders raised and lowered with a shrug, "no, not exactly."

"What is the problem, then?"

Huffing, Beelzebub explained, "maybe I am capable of loving her…" He paused between thoughts, his breath falling cold, chilled by prospects Azrael couldn't see with his eyes, but could feel in the guarded sprinkling of hopelessness that dotted the dulled shade of the demon's mood. "But I'm capable of a fuckton of other things too." That one simple statement helped him understand why there was so much vehemence for Balael's pain and heartache; he feared that he would do the same thing to this woman he fancied. He was afraid of turning into his father.

Azrael couldn't help the smile that curved his mouth against his active will. It was only further proof that Beelzebub was exactly the opposite of what he feared to become; this anxiety, this worry. As he reached to take his friend and comrade's collar and shook it gently, he said simply, "after how many thousands of years you have lived without a change for the worse…somehow I doubt you have to fear for her wellbeing." He laughed, "any woman you pick is very likely capable of handling you."

"Gee, thanks," Beelzebub snipped, sarcasm dripping from his tone. Azrael merely laughed again, and slapped the prince across the shoulder. "But seriously," he added, "thanks."

"Just returning the favor," the angel replied genially, taking a drink of water. "But I do expect you to unveil an identity sooner rather than later."

"Yeah, yeah, when I'm good and ready and have my shit back together."

Striped leather slipped snugly over Beelzebub's wrist, turning his shiny black fingernails to glittering gems against his fair skin. Foxy face relaxed, he let his attention wander around the spacious room, keen sight softening briefly as it passed over Balael (taking compliments from her dazed and drunken admirers). The female's magical illusions were slowly dissipating like a mist that faded into an autumn afternoon, but it was still heavy enough to drench the mind careless enough to sink inside with the scents of rose tea and crushed cardamom. "When're you taking Lilith back to NYC?"

Azrael tilted his head back, looking up at the sky concealed by roofing and glass. His magic penetrated the layers of mortar and earthen material, piercing the barriers keeping him from the moon, and read the time that told him it was far later than he had anticipated staying. "Soon," he replied, "she has plans for later this week."

"You have a sentinel with her?"

"Yes," the angel confirmed, "as well as fully renewed guarding and warding spells added to her apartment and person."

"Hmm…" Beelzebub pulled a tube of eyeliner from the depths of a hidden pocket and unscrewed the cap. "You know, you should probably move her soon. Malik still knows her location, plus, a blood-tie that makes the place weak to his penetration if he's enough of an idiot to try something again. Or if he chooses to sell that information…"

But Beelzebub didn't need to read him the dangers of allowing his ward to return to her apartment, he knew them perfectly well, like tiny, worrisome pricks lodged in his heart so precisely he couldn't gouge them out. "I know, and I will. But after the baby."

Using a pocket mirror, the demon was tracing his eyes with the liquid makeup, blinking now and again to check the lines, making sure they were even. "An angel-mortal cross…" he murmured, the slight narrowed quality to his eyes suggesting deep thought. "Why does that make me feel like I should be remembering something important?" Azrael said nothing. He had been asking himself the same question ever since Lilith had given him the news.

"_Wie gehts?_"

The two men looked up to see Balael standing, hands propped on slanted hips, looking marginally irritated and tapping her toe. She grabbed Beelzebub by the shirt and hauled him out of his seat, to the cawing of bewilderment coming from the prince's mouth.

"Get off your ass and on the friggin' stage, you came here to sing, dummy!"

Beelzebub managed to snag a last drink and a feeble farewell, promising to pass on the good news of the coming baby as the she-demon bullied and prodded and dragged him from the table and toward the stage. Azrael, smiling, stood and counted out payment for his water and the coveted seat he was vacating, and stepped into the welcome night – and home. All questions and concerns were put aside until morning, for he had decided to take Lilith back tomorrow, which would allow him to puzzle out answers without having to fear for her state of calm. For the last few hours he had with her until some undetermined date, he wanted there to be nothing but them.

* * *

**Loooong chapter! Sorry for the wait, too...I made a mistake and somehow neglected to update here :/ I apologize. Not much going on, really here, but there are some small parts that have significance. There will be more action soon. I promise promise promise.**

**Please, please review for me! I will love you forever for it! Never forget that you rock my word, readers. **

**Until next time!**


	11. When Darkness Fell

**Chapter 11: When Darkness Fell**

Recommended Listening: "Track 1" and "Track 4" by Daft Punk  
[from Tron Legacy] and "Running Up That Hill" by Placebo

* * *

By human standard the night would have been icily cold. The earth was brittle with it, iced over and glossy with a fresh powder of snow, and still as only a true winter midnight could be. In the mountains, it was colder still, stricken with the first real freeze of the new year.

The first of two sentries leapt lightly from a patch of bare rock to another, careful to avoid slipping upon the sheen of ice which covered it like an iridescent shell by flexing his gray- and tan-flecked wings. For a moment he merely waited, eyes surveying the valley which spread beneath his perch with long, sweeping glances. There was nothing there but the empty field, just as there had been nothing for weeks. Yet the lack of movement didn't keep him from doing his job. He looked long and hard before moving on.

Stepping from the ledge, the angel dropped down to the next level of craggy rock where his partner waited. With a graceful bend of his knees, he landed, straightened, and folded his wings behind his back.

She lifted her head to look at him, brindled feathers rustling in the breath of chilled air which passed them by with a mild caress. Her fierce, curved beak caught a gleam of moonlight as she asked him, "anything?" He shook his head, unsurprised when she gave a sigh. "I thought I saw a void shimmer earlier, but it was nothing," she murmured and shifted, agitated, from foot to clawed fore-foot.

As soon as he was about to chastise the noise her talons made against the ledge, he saw her pointed ears flick backward and her head angle to the side. "I hear—"

Her scream tore through him like a bolt, the pain of it ravaging his insides. He whirled, reaching reflexively for his magic and saw the Gryffin rear onto her leonine rear legs, thrashing, twisting her head in an attempt to sink her beak in the demon clinging to her back and slashing at her wings with the sabers secured to its forearms. He threw a spell, the words to make it wrap around the demon's neck and drag it to the ground hot upon his lips.

The arms that grabbed him from behind were strong, armored with a substance that had a texture like polished ceramic and shaped like the cording of muscles. He maneuvered his hands up underneath the wrist that pressed into his sternum, forcing his way to freedom and circling quickly to protect his wings.

He could feel the blade of the knife bite into his throat, the flesh part and peel back from the enchanted steel as it cut him open. The burn of the blood that trickled from between his lips was acrid, smoking with the magic that leeched the life from him, forcibly separating body and soul. Darkness that was no less than crushing held swarmed in, his body dying. There was no option but to let it come, to take the trek to Eden and mental healing.

The first thing he did once he got there, however, was not to heal, but to sound the alarm.

* * *

The library was one of the only rooms in the entire of the regularly-inhabited portion of heaven's constructed space that was completely closed off from the outside. It was an enormous, circular chamber with vaulted ceilings that extended ten floors in height, made reachable by staircases that spiraled like the spines of seashells and fashioned of blackened metal, a contrasted hue to the base of white marble, which made up the entirety of the surfaces. The furnishings were simple, plainly hued in either black or white, and dispersed at even intervals throughout the spaces that weren't stacked with scrolls, books, manuscripts, and files.

Its sealed doors did not take away from the open structural norm of the realm's architecture, however. In the place of archways leading into the air of the nether sky there were windowpanes of glass so fine and thin that it mightn't have been there at all, letting in plenty of light and serving the purpose of keeping the artifacts clean.

It had always been a soothing place; somewhere to go for any angel who needed to think or even just be alone for a moment. Azrael, with his fondness for study and learning, had always held a special place in his heart for it; for its clean, peaceful way of never having a judgmental word or thought to be heard. It was like dwelling, if only for a brief while, in a small piece of Elysia, where nothing could ever go wrong.

But it was not the aimless perfection of the afterlife, and things did, in fact, deviate from desired paths. His purpose there had not been inspired by a wish for quiet or a good read, or any pursuit of pleasure.

He had come in search of answers to several growing problems, some joyous in nature (despite their worrying points), some fringed with dread. For some he had found encouragement, for others, answers. For one or two those answers were clouded with lore and perhapses that would require further time and attention. For perhaps the most pressing, he found a grim truth that gave him further steps rather than any conclusion – which was what he had hoped to find.

Upon concluding his scheduled visitations, he had turned the archives over for information regarding the subjects of soul sight, premonition, and Empathy. All three had been a long time coming, but the time, freedom, and opportunity had never been in the right sense of order for him to pursue looking them up. Each of them, he had begun to notice, was burgeoning in Lilith's psyche.

It had taken him a while to notice, but as she had warmed to discussion and casual talk with him, he had been starting to notice things about her that weren't necessarily customary among every other human. While it was true, many humans naturally had access to the portion of their brains which allowed them to sense immortal activity; true soul sight was a rare gift. The ability to both sense and articulate what was _being_ sensed, even with crude and limited vocabulary, was uncommon in its purest form.

Yet Lilith had once mentioned knowledge of his existence long before their first corporeal meeting. He'd thought nothing of it initially, assuming she'd merely had an experience likened to that of someone imagining they'd seen a ghost, until he had taken note of the large amount of familiarity she unknowingly continued to show him.

Lilith's mother, Claire, had been a soul seer. Her power had been weaker compared to some, and her daughter's was not much stronger. Often shared genetically from parent to offspring, the reason for Lilith's ability to sense him as a child, even partially interact with him in her own way, was unsurprising once explained logically.

Premonition was an unusual and often burdensome quality for a human to have. Those too fragile had been driven mad by its images, the way it tended to distort reality and make the possessor question the difference between past and future. It was a fickle gift as well; one minute it might show its host a glimpse of a possible future and the next it might merely offer a snippet of an alternate present event. Very few humans had been able to bear it and make any use out of it.

She had never shown the signs of having precognitive strength; she'd voiced none of the unusual, often frightening questions to her friends or elders that young premonitives often did. Nor did she ever seem to have active visions, either. She had never attributed a link to her dreams and any real-time happening, which only meant she possessed a passive form of the gift.

Premonition was a gift with direct lines to godliness; as God alone could see into any number of possible futures, read the past like a book, and see all the innumerable things which happened in a single moment. Some humans handled it well, such as Nostradamus and Virgil Alighieri, who had both tried to use it for the good of other people. But some could not, succumbed to madness and often died by either their hand or someone else's. As he saw no madness in Lilith, he must assume she could handle her gift, even if she didn't know what it was.

While he was glad of that, he couldn't quite disperse his curiosity as to why the Almighty had bestowed the gift on Lilith particularly. Not that it was his place to question.

As for Empathy, he couldn't be sure. It had never occurred to him that his ward's massive quantities of emotional stress during his courting could have been anything but simple indecision. However, recollecting the sheer violence of her mood changes, the way she had alternated from arguing and cowering to acceptance and longing had struck him with the question of reasoning. He had begun to wonder if Empathy was to blame.

It was more of a condition than the other pair, an adaptation of the mind's ability to process emotion via expansion of the perceivable range. Any number of humans had the ability to gauge emotions of others, whether through expressions or language, but there were also those who could actually feel the emotions of those others. They were like conduits, receivers, and often didn't even understand what they occasionally felt was only partially their own feeling. It was something very like his own gift for reading more deeply into people than their external images.

Empathy would definitely explain Lilith's extreme emotional shifts; such as the occasion when she had moved from kissing him to smacking her head into a mirrored cabinet to create distance in a matter of seconds. She had been more conflicted than he'd initially realized. Her desires, while real, had been amplified by his, coaxed into more forward action because of his proximity and thereby clashing with her instinct to flee. It made so much sense that he couldn't understand why he hadn't seen it before.

He had felt better about his research, if for no other reason than that it brought him that much closer to the woman who carried a child of his parentage.

And that was something entirely different. The subject of Lilith's odd pregnancy had been a puzzlement since the confirmation had fallen from her lips. Not only was there no record of any previous conception of its kind, but there was not so much as a scrap of information what might happen if such a thing was to occur. He scoured medical texts, histories; anything he could think of. No solution, no information, no aid. It was an oddity, but one he was prepared to handle without serious repercussion for Lilith. He had already begun administering some spells to protect her from any harmful magic the child might perform out of ignorance.

The final reason for his haunting in the library was the ongoing puzzle surrounding the Records of Iscariot; the altered sections, the strangeness to the spells added to it, and the connection it all appeared to have with the current state of affairs. He had been looking at historical reports of the Iscariot period, reading between each individual account in order to compare the facts and the varied interpretations, if any, to try and locate anything that might compound any explanation.

The discovery: the formal Records had been tampered with far more than originally documented. He had decided the only real way to come to an answer was to ask Iscariot himself. This meant he would have to as Judas himself.

He would have to perform a séance.

That was where they found him, bent over piles of heavy books and a series of scrolls so old that the papyrus-paper was almost completely patched with spells to hold the fibers together.

He hadn't gotten much farther than the decision itself, for he began to feel the presence of the angels' spiritual energy at the back of his consciousness, two smooth, tingling lights that began in anonymity and slowly gained clarity the nearer they came. His curiosity was mild, diluted by the distraction of decisions and information both made and filed; but he looked up from the delicate fabric of the unfurled scroll, turning his attention to the two approaching figures. He caught the swiftness to their movements, not altogether buried by an eerie calm. Yet it was the movement, accented by an irregularly formal obsequiousness, which alerted him to the realization that something was wrong.

Laurael was one of his mages, an earth witch with some small power to alter her elemental and physical surroundings, yet her rank was below that of her fellow messenger. She walked three paces behind him, her hands clasped tightly before her chest, signaling her anxiety. That anxiety was in no way foolish. Raziel was an intimidating figure, who seemed to walk in a shroud of shadow he spun out of any ambient light. He was Uriel's, a lieutenant with highly developed skills for concealment, watchfulness, and disguise; qualities which made him an excellent and valuable spy. With his dark hair and faintly golden-toned skin, he was both beautiful and terrifying; and not whom Azrael would have initially expected for a covert messenger, but that didn't mean anything.

"Azrael _Darine,_" Raziel's soft voice and its honoring title of 'lord' reached Azrael before his stride slowed and melted into a low, liquid bow. Laurael followed, dipping into a curtsey as her companion straightened and said; "we apologize for disturbing you."

"Not at all," Azrael waved the apology away with a nod. "Speak freely."

"Demon activity was spotted both on the edge of Michael's camp off the border of Amsterdam and in the Eyrie valley three hours ago. We just got the official reports in regarding the clearly not individual events." Raziel's tone rose in volume as Azrael got to his feet with what could have been called a jolt had it not been so graceful. "Both are under control as of yet," the dark-haired angel reassured, "however…"

There was no need to continue. Azrael could hear it in Raziel's voice and in the hesitation upon Laurael's breath; he would not have been sent messengers of this mixed caliber merely to keep him informed.

Using a short, firm twist of one hand and a mark drawn with the other, he bid the assortment of materials to roll up, close, and stow themselves back in their proper places. Shrugging from his coat, which was much too constrictive for fighting, Azrael circled the marble table to join the two angels just beside the stone-carved plinth stationed at the very center of the lowest floor. From the plinth rose a sculpture, peerless crystal shaped into the image of a falling star nearly as large as a humanoid body. Across the base, the stone just beneath the crystal where the edge of the plinth dropped to the floor had been carved three elegant, slanting words: _Vae Ti'an Rocaes._

_We will remember._

"Are you stationed with Michael?" Azrael asked of Raziel, holding out a hand for Laurael's briefing notes.

"No. I return to Uriel _Darine._"

The mousy female angel deposited a thin, flat and squared disc into her general's open palm. It was cool to the touch, inanimate and lacking any kind of life beyond the spellmarks imprinted on its surface which hummed with coded information. He touched the center of the disc where the marks shone brightest, and was regaled with a flood of information; pictures and words trailed into his mind from the disc's encrypted contents, transferred from magical data to real happenings from the eyes of sentries, soldiers, one of his lieutenants, and Laurael herself receiving the order to find him and bring him to the Eyrie.

Mazikim and Tiharire; standard fighters of humanoid and animal varieties. This was not serious warfare by any means, but as the war had officially begun some months ago this could have been considered Lucifer's way of moving his pawns onto the board. He crushed the disc in his hand, obliterating it with the strength of his magic to compress it into dust, and with a fluid movement, he started for the doors which would lead him from the library to the businesslike quarter of _Ashelie_.

The area which was occupied by scribes, artists, and craftspeople was like a spacious marketplace, and normally bustled with activity. The life there was a thin trickle of its usual gaiety, subdued and only scantly occupied. The seraph and the messengers passed through without the greeting that would have been so customary.

"Pandora has been notified?"

"She's present, Sir," Laurael confirmed, using the more informal honorific preferred by the younger generations of angel as she trotted to keep up the longer stride of the males. "Tending to the small number of wounded."

Azrael nodded as he turned into the transportation room, its columns casting heavy golden shadows across the swirl-marbled floor. "What is Michael's situation?"

"Fair enough," Raziel answered with some hesitation. "They were hit much more heavily than the Eyrie so far as we can tell."

The seraph frowned. "Odd," he mused, "it is not like Lucifer to underestimate us." He ascended the steps to the pedestal but paused before bending to it. "Kindly request a full report from Uriel as soon as he is able? I need to know what kind of patterns are present, what sort of strategy might be in place within this attack."

Raziel shook his head. "These are low level demons, milord. They have no strategy."

Azrael refrained from correcting the angel while he rolled up his sleeves and tied back his hair, tucking in places which might get caught or make easy hand-holds for would-be attackers. He planned to transport himself into the field to assess the strength behind the assault before conferring with his lieutenants. "Often in the past that has been the case," he noted, "however, we must always keep in mind that while many of hell's rabble has lost their greater intelligence, their king has not."

Lifting his eyes to the nether sky he could see between columns and roof, he watched the creamy white of the clouds pass through the sea of golden and orange of approaching twilight (twilight in heaven, anyway, for all time was different). "Laurael," he beckoned to her, "you first please. I would have you take a message to Cassiel for me."

She stepped forward, straightening her close-fit, fawn colored vest and signaling with an upright stance that she was ready.

"Have him make the proper plans for a séance. I will need Gabriel present as well as Sandalphon and Balberith. Also, I will require communications with the other _Venhei_ as soon as possible." He gestured to the bowl of liquid which would take her to the earthly plain. "I will be along shortly."

While Laurael's eyes betrayed her question of bewilderment in response to her general's mention of the term, she had been raised not to voice those questions. Inclining her head, she stepped up to the bowl and touched her hand to the liquid. Strictly speaking, the liquid was not required to travel from one plain to another, but it did make the adjustment easier on the mind and body. For Laurael, who preferred not to use her face, it was a near necessity. She was, after all, very young.

She was gone in moments, as was Raziel who departed with a bow and a dark congealing of shadowed air. And as Azrael let his face sink into the cool water and into the embrace of the Darkness, the source of all substance, he felt his body dissipate, realign, and reform as the soundtrack of battle began to play in his ears.

The sound swelled into clarity, as though he truly had emerged from the depths of a silent lake, through muffled noise and distant cries, screams, growls, and clangs of weaponry. It grew to a clamor, well passing the brink of loudness and broaching territory of painful. The mix of shrieks of fear and anguish with the scrape of metal to claw, fang to artery and steel armor were always difficult to bear regardless of the setting. Battle was in no way glorious, though both glory and war had been birthed from the same battlefield. It was awful.

All of these people, these creatures, these minds, had once been on the same side. Now they tore themselves asunder.

As Azrael's consciousness meshed into the parallel world that was his home in times such as these, he directed it not toward the Eyrie, which was his fortress to protect. Instead he found an empty space amidst a field roiling with activity. Caged in by the mountains, the valley was a pit of rage and righteousness, smattered with small victories and the metal tang of blood against the backdrop of ice. Rusted scarlet and the black oil which ran through the veins of lesser demons peppered the pressure-packed snow beneath his feet, instantly soiling the knee of his slacks which had bent to the ground.

Magic gave the air a fresh flavor charged with electricity.

His eyes drank in the elegant chaos of the quarrel around him. Demons of both humanoid and animal shape were assaulting his mages, using teeth and tails and talons or forged metal or glass weapons to drive them back toward the cliff face and the lowest levels of the Eyrie, the doors of which had been barred tightly shut. His people had been unprepared for the attack, which, he surmised, must have been the idea behind the long stretch of inactivity. They were, however, holding their own.

A trio of Gryffins soared overhead, clutching great hunks of rock straight from the mountains in their powerful fore claws. Demons though they were by birth, by nature they were loyal creatures. They were proud of their association with heaven and all it stood for. With eerie shrieks they dropped their burden, sending the chunks of hardened earth careening to the ground. Yet as they grew nearer, succumbing to the call of gravity, one of the mages stationed on the battlement of the fortress shouted a spell which made them burst, showering the earth with heavy shards of shrapnel.

He turned his head in time to see a demon with skin which ran like watered mud fall to a spelled arrow, which speared it through the heart. Another dozen fell to a spell which turned the air to a solid and forced their limbs and weapons back upon them. A chaimera, a great cat with a mane of hair like barbs which would set a body to fire if touched, was slain by the knife-work of a female with black-tipped wings, who then turned to slash her next opponent with lightning.

The pride and confidence Azrael had for his people was great. But as the earth beneath his feet trembled and rolled (Laurael having delivered her message and contributing with her own gift, no doubt), a nearby basilisk spun to stay balanced and caught sight of him. Emotions had to be quickly pushed aside.

Circling, the basilisk stalked him with the narrow focus and eager rapture of a hunter. Its eyes tied to each muscle, every tendon that shifted as he slowly, carefully slid to his feet to face it.

Basilisks were powerful for lesser demons, draconian reptiles that stood on their hind feet and hissed their death threats. Azrael feared neither fangs nor claws, nor the muscular limbs and chest that built an adult male driven by nothing but his thirst for blood and gore, and the frenzied need to kill. He did have respect for the venom basilisks carried in their mouths, however, which would paralyze him in moments if he wasn't able to forcibly purge it from his system. When there was so much more to contend with in addition to poisonous teeth, it was best not to get bitten. He didn't need to begin racking up any lifedebt so early in the game.

The creature's feet gouged a shallow furrow in the earth, its sickly greenish hide scaly and dully shining in the orange of Cassiel's strong battle magic, which set fire to the grass in order to isolate the continuous onslaught of demonic pawns from the battling angels. Its mouth opened, scaled lips curling, displaying a double-row of jagged teeth which oozed venom. With a shallow hiss, it ventured a pace nearer, bobbing its head as though taking measure of its intended prey's size and stature.

Azrael calmly raised his right hand, calling forth a spark of magic to blossom as his fingertips. The tiny lick of fire coated his fingertips, violet fringed with white to draw a single letter upon a pane of sky.

The basilisk charged him.

Goaded by the initiation of a spell, and what it instinctively saw as a split second of weakness, it lunged forward, claws extended, aiming for the abdomen and the organs it so yearned to feast upon.

His spellcasting was quicker than had been expected. Letter burning on the wind and on his tongue, he traced a smooth S-shaped trail, one which left a flash of violet bleeding in its wake. As summoned, his scythe appeared, materializing out of the trail of flame and the spell of its name, just within reach. The elegant weapon, curved and delicately framed of glass woven with onyx and starsilver, sang through the air to slice the basilisk's throat.

Gaping, the slit flowed with greenish, blackened blood. The basilisk gurgled it fury, staggering, and reached out with a vengeful arm to grab for its intended victim. But Azrael, wielding his scythe – his mercy – with a speed and grace beyond the ken of so crude a life form, spun the blade backward, tracing a new arc to whistle through the cacophony of battle, and cut the demon's torso clean in two.

Violet fire scalded the venom from the creature's mouth even as it spat its dying throes several feet away.

The cold, factual monotone of a fighter's instinct iced him inside and out. And yet, as he coolly turned to meet the head-long challenge of a demon's attack with another swift sweep of his blade, he could hear the echoes of words spoken to him the night before, as he had been preparing for slumber preceding the delivery of his ward to her human home. It was as if she was there with him, her cheek against the crest of his shoulder and her hair trailing across his arm, though there was nothing but him and his opponent with a chain of barbs intended for his throat.

"_People fight over material things like land, or for protection, or ideas like religion. That's what our wars are about. What are your wars about?"_

"_Some things that are similar…some that are different. Who knows?" _He had said._ Certainly not I."_

This, even this bloodshed and manic drive to fight, was not real.

The realization overtook him as the demon fell, cut by the magic ribbons woven about its limbs and crushing the life from its body. He needed no information besides what he gained by viewing the spectacle of slaughter spread like a banquet out before him. The losses were one-sided, shallow, gained without serious force or retaliation. Not a single one of his soldiers had fallen and already there were piles of corpses rotten before their conception on the mortal plain. That could mean only one thing: a diversion.

He spread his wings and leaped into the air, the blackened tips of his feathers cutting into the flesh of several demonic shapes which chased after him. From the air he fortified his conclusion, taking count of the deaths – tiny sparks snuffed into darkness in a dormant corner of his mind – and banked on the precipice of his fortress with grim lines etched at the corners of his mouth.

Laurael was there in an instant, Ezekiel at her shoulder, a small pouch of herbs in one hand and a flat mirror in the other, both of which she presented to him without his needing to ask. He took the mirror and inserted three fingers into the pouch to extract a pinch of the mixture which would aid him in contacting his fellow seraphim generals. As he walked to the empty chamber prepared for him, he crushed and smeared the herbal compound across the mirror's surface, listening calmly to Ezekiel's quietly concealed fury.

"Are we being _toyed_ with?" the green-eyed angel snapped. "_Again?_"

"I don't know," Azrael replied, "it is possible we are merely meant to be distracted from what is going on elsewhere. In the meantime, keep an eye on our mages?" Ezekiel nodded and turned on his heel to obey, returning to the walls to watch for any shifts in the dynamic of the fighting that might signify changes in the strength of the opposition.

The door to the chamber was closed behind him by the angel set to guard the entrance against enemy intrusion, set there specifically for his protection. It was more a formality than anything else, but he had no reason to do away with it; he would be the first to admit that he couldn't always depend on himself to remain constantly aware and out of danger. To think otherwise was both arrogant and foolish.

He stood in the center of the room; a small room of stone, hexagonal in shape, unfurnished and empty. There wasn't even a candle for light, nothing but empty space and the door through which he'd come. But the room kept a secret. Its bare walls and lack of honey touches were not that way because of an unfortunate neglect, but deliberately, because an empty room made the best place to hold a conference.

He laid the mirror face up on the floor at his feet, closed his eyes, and let his magical energy open wide. It reached, pouring into the mirror and reflecting onto the five walls across from and around him, pooling like a liquid veil over the stones. Five other threads reached back, intertwining with the fabric of his spell, tracing pictures upon the canvas he had primed and prepared, spread across the walls like paint driven by a mixture of gravity and clear will.

When his eyes opened again, the images of each of his brothers and sisters were depicted, each on their own space of wall, looking back at him. From left to right, Michael, general infantry; Gabriel, communications; Uriel, intelligence; Raphael, medical; and Enoch, supply and camouflage. They stood across from him, like variations on a subject reflected in a five-way mirror, each one facing the center. He may have been the center in his corner of the world, but to each seraph standing in the center of their own room, herb-smeared mirror at their feet, it would be different.

It was Uriel who broke the silence of conclave, the emphasis of his voice smooth and solemn compared to his news. "There is no meaning," he said. "Assault on infantry and cavalry, but no activity anywhere else…_any_where else."

Judging by the looks of bewilderment exchanged by his siblings, Azrael knew that he wasn't the only one who was confused. "This is not a diversion, then?" he clarified in question.

"How can that be?" Michael's golden voice was accented by a note of harshness, his molten eyes flickering to meet the dark stare of the brother older than himself by only a fraction of hard, measureable time.

While Uriel had probably never shrugged in his life (he had never used such insignificant movements), the subtle tilt of his head, the way his eyelids shielded his irises for a flutter of an instant, contained the same meaning. "All I can be certain of is that none of my watchers have been able to trace any activity—" His words cut off into silence, the angle of jaw and chin shifting an infinitesimal fraction of a space lower. As if in thought, his brow furrowed just enough to portray a sense of hesitation. "No, forgive me. I have remembered an incident reported two days ago by a scout situated along the Anatolian-Egyptian border."

"What kind of incident?"

Enoch caught her twin's eyes and exchanged with him a look of tepid exasperation. It was in Michael's character to be demanding, he had been the mold for the alpha male man that needed to be control at all times and in all situations. A quality which had never ceased to rub Azrael the wrong way…which was part of the reason why Enoch took such pains to alleviate his agitation by distracting him with camaraderie.

It took a heck of a lot more than a little bit of edginess from his younger siblings to ruffle Uriel's feathers, however. He reported coolly, "A large scale series of investigative spells housing signatures rather similar to those of Lucifer's Wyverns."

Enoch sucked in a harsh breath, which reverberated like ripples of sound across the pooled, glassy surface of the five-way mirror connecting their consciousnesses.

"Well then," Raphael murmured, a hint of irony outlining his tone. "It's a diversion of a special sort."

"He's trying to distract us and drive the search out of our minds, hoping we might forget about it. Which means only one thing." Azrael's eyes lifted to meet Uriel's, knowing before the words left his mouth that the significance was already understood.

It had been a long-standing fact of a loosely based definition that warfare was guided by a code that was to be heavily enforced by the authority of both sides. There were some things that couldn't be done, some agreements that couldn't be bypassed, and some rules that couldn't be broken. That had been the idea, anyway, when the art of war had been refined during the revolution.

There was only one problem; Lucifer wasn't bound to follow any form of code. Nor by honor, morality, or by any fear of what penance he might have to pay for the decisions he made. It made immortal warfare difficult when the opposition had no rules.

This wasn't to say demonic forces had no honor, because the Ghosts certainly did. Nergal held herself and her people accountable for their actions, as did some of the other military leaders of the dark kingdom. But their king did not. That was why it was no real surprise to hear that Lucifer had sent his Wyverns – the bodyguards he neither needed nor deserved – poking around in places he was not supposed to meddle with.

Raphael was tentative when he spoke, his green eyes uncertain and a trace more than doubtful as he asked, "what would he want there? I know it's forbidden ground, but there shouldn't be anything there of interest to him."

"Not necessarily—" Gabriel began before Michael interrupted him.

"Raphael's right." Michael's golden-hued hair shone as he turned his head to commend his healer brother with a nod. "There's nothing there but sand and humans."

Azrael bristled. "His Infernal Highness has shown plenty of interest in humans before this." The edge to his voice rang with irritation, his eyes paling to a magenta that harmonized with the rapid bleaching of Raphael's sage green to a wary lime. The tension in the room rose, shimmering along the magic of the conclave which connected them, mind and image.

Slowly, the molten gold of Michael's gaze shifted to rest upon the face of his youngest seraph brother; the expression there composed of both dry humor and affronted displeasure. "And what," he began, and his vocal volume lifted just a hair's breadth, just as his head lifted into an unmistakable pose of authority, "because you share this trait you believe we should give it our attention?"

"_Michael—!" _Enoch hissed, her two-toned eyes flaring with a spark of horrified shock. And she wasn't alone. Every other angel's presence there in the room stiffened, went rigid with the chill of discomfort, unease, and anger.

"No," Azrael hushed her, despite his own desire to snarl at his brother. It wasn't a subtle insult to imply he had instigated a relationship with a human to use and devour her, as Lucifer had done in the past. But it wasn't important. "I don't care what he says about me. But he is a fool if he forgets to respect one of the greatest powers that exists."

Michael snorted; derision a nasty contrast to a handsome face. "Respect—"

"Yes, respect," Azrael repeated, his eyes never leaving Michael's. "Because he and he alone was the inventive strength behind more than half of the structured magic we have. He has power the likes of which we cannot even begin to understand. For all his faults—for all his crimes, he deserves our _respect._"

For a long, tense moment there was neither sound nor movement. The room roiled with emotions which crackled along the lines of magic tracing the stones, shimmering with every breath no one took. All the while War and Death eyed one another with blank, distant faces and eyes that had shielded inner thought – each one waiting for the other to slip, to show a weakness which never came.

Finally, Azrael broke contact. "I need to perform a séance."

There was a general shift in the temperature of the room, relief mixed with an eagerness for a course of action.

"Séance?" Michael repeated, looking arrogantly surprised, "what for?"

Azrael didn't answer. Instead, he looked to Gabriel in order to ask, "did you receive my message?"

Gabriel's blue eyes were stark against his pale skin and even paler hair. He had reshaped it to suit a combative period, shortening it and combing it back against his head in a way similar to Uriel's preferred style. "Yes," the silvery messenger answered, "I will clear any appointments I have for the date."

"Thank you," Azrael told him, and then spoke to the rest of his siblings. "I have decided to raise Judas Iscariot. It is time we got some answers."

* * *

Wearied by the strain of dealing with Michael's penchant for difficulty and the time it had taken to report his people' work on the Iscariot Records (namely, the multitude of failed attempts to crack whatever code had been imprinted into its pages), Azrael exited the conference chamber, mirror in hand, in time to see the very first traces of sunlight start to peek over the crest of the mountains.

The fighting had lapsed, fading to a trickle of quarrelsome basilisks who simply refused to leave without getting a chunk of angel flesh for their efforts and an especially stubborn male chimera. A team of mages was dealing with them; restraining their limbs and teeth, and sending them back home to the judgment pits.

He leaned against the parapet, the stone cool against the skin of his forearms, and lifted his face to the sky. It would snow soon, and cover up the blood and oil that splattered the frozen earth far below. A heartening thought, was cleanliness. So was sleep, but unfortunately for him, he had some prepping to do. Séances required an excessive amount of detail in order to function correctly, and it needed to be performed soon.

He had turned to retire to his rooms, fully intending to begin at least the primary lists of required materials, herbs, and formulate his questions, when he caught sight of something which altered his course.

Pandora was tucked under the roofed balcony serving her as a temporary medical area. Her flame-red hair was bent, tending to a gryffin whose wings had been brutally ravaged, partially stripped of feathers and gored to a steady, sluggishly bleed. He approached, observing the female gryffin's orangey eyes squeezed shut with the pain of Pandora's salve treatment and bandaging.

Gryffins were classified as being more demonic than angelic, though they had been born to God's hand and not the devil's, which was more a testament to the flaws of angel kind's pride in their human-inspiring forms than justified classification. They were, among other creatures which resided in the parallel world adjacent to mortality, their own class of being. But they had always been loyal to their maker, regardless of how they were often mistreated…a practice which he neither condoned nor tolerated. This particular gryffin was of the cat-raptor species (griffins took more than just the half-lion half-eagle shapes given to them by man), and a matriarch of a flock by the look of her head, held high despite her pain.

He was fond of griffins. They were frank, fiercely loving, and practical. While normally unaffected by the ebb and flow of immortal politics, never once had their matriarchs turned down an opportunity to fight with their winged second-cousins. It saddened him to see her pain, though he was grateful for the aid of her people and the pride in her eyes.

"I regret your injuries, good lady," he said to her, offering a bow to the beautiful creature.

The gryffin turned her regal head toward him, attention caught by his words. For a moment, she regarded him with one steely orange eye, her brindled feathers rustling as Pandora adjusted one wing to get to a particularly nasty gouge in the muscle connected to her shoulder and back. And then she inclined her head to him.

"I will heal," she said solemnly, "and fight again another day."

Azrael balanced the mirror in one hand and held out the other, holding it just within her reach, but respectfully refraining from touching her without her permission. "May I have your name, so I may thank you and your clan?"

Her amusement was a warm tingle inside his head, tickled by his manner and his courtesy, a prelude to her words as she touched the curve of her beak to his palm. "You may. It is Byrinn."

The thrum of her voice in his mind was pleasant, borderline affectionate for a first-meeting. It occurred to him that he might have known her mother or father, and perhaps had known her as a chick some years ago. She was younger than matriarchs tended to be, but considering her tolerance for and calm under agony, he could understand why she had risen to leadership.

Pandora's hands smoothed salve across a patch of flesh which had been gouged almost to the bone and Byrinn's eyes softly closed, the only true sign that she felt anything but a cool breeze across her face. His fingers gently rubbed the feathers under her chin, offering a distraction by way of touch, and mused, "I do believe you are the very same Byrinn who was born to Ytara and Gael. Are you parents still nesting or have they given that up for retirement?"

Byrinn's smile was located in the single eye she allowed to open and wink at him. "Still nesting," she replied, "they have a new pair of hatchlings, hence why they have not made an appearance."

"Ah." Azrael's lips curved into a smile of his own. "I will make some time to visit and meet the new little hunters."

The gryffin's fierce stare softened, almost illegibly, but he could see it; the mixture of fondness and gratitude defined by the respect she had for him. Respect she gave simply because he had the decency to show it to her in the first place. "You are an odd one," she noted frankly, "conversing so nicely to me. Not every angel would do such a thing."

"I know," he admitted, the words sour upon his tongue. "But you knew _I_ would."

That single eye flickered closed in a wink. "Yes," she agreed, "I did."

* * *

**Hello readers! Thank you for your patience as I struggle with school, tests, increased work schedules, and life crap. I appreciate it so much!**

**I have good news and bad news. The good news is that I am currently going through Volume I once more to fit it up before I do some serious work in, hopefully, getting it published. I've decided I'm going to get myself a literary agent, and then do my darndest to get this thing in actual print. Now, before anyone panics, no, this doesn't mean I'm not going to be updating here, it just means I'm still going to be slow in updating, and that if I'm distracted and less eloquent in my afterward comments, it's because I'm trying to do more stuff XD That was the bad news, by the way...that I'm not going to be getting any quicker. For this I'm sorry :/ I try to submit my best.**

**So please, review on your way out, and I promise to do my best to get the next chapter done as fast as I can.**

**Until next time! Much love and good wishes!**


	12. Emblem

**Chapter 12: Emblem**

Recommended Listening: "Come on Get Higher" by Matt Nathanson,  
"The Dumbing Down of Love" by Frou Frou, "Crusaders"  
by Harry Gregson-Williams [from Kingdom of Heaven] and  
"The Wolf" by Tyler Bates [from 300]

* * *

The garnishes of ice blue irises and soft, frothy white freesia spilled across the granite countertop like sea foam made entirely of petals. They seemed to glow atop the surface, under the soft-lit crystal-mounted lights illuminating the kitchen, as though they were radiating the pure, dizzying amounts of happiness which filled the spacious house from floor to roof. Small bits of spring, delivered by the florist that morning, offered up a certain gentleness; deceptively opposite the winter world that blustered outside the glass French doors to the barren garden.

Lilith gathered an armful of tiny bouquets and made her way through the hallway and out into the studio, to begin adorning each of the set, laid and primly spotless round tables with a centerpiece of flowers.

Due to the rush of Elijah's work demands and the weather, the wedding location had been moved to the home of Alice's aunt May – her mother's sister. The woman was an interior decorator and the wife of a highly respected surgeon, therefore, she had lots of room and a studio which she had converted to a gathering venue which she rented out for special events. The plus side was that May was only too happy to open up the space for her niece's wedding free of charge. The down side was that the space was a little more cramped than had been originally planned for.

Alice had a larger family, and they were all close. Most of the spare bedrooms housed multiple out-of-state relatives and all of their luggage for the visit, which left little preparation space aside from the kitchen and the studio itself, which was to be both the wedding and reception room.

In reality, none of this was a big deal. Neither was the snow, falling thick and steady outside. Elijah and Alice were both as calm and easygoing about their ceremony as a to-be-wedded couple ever could have been, something Elijah's grandmother Florence seemed to be remarking on every five minutes.

Everything had started coming together. Sarah had been in the kitchen, working around the flowers with May and the mother of the bride, Ella, to ensure the last of the food was arranged, and Janelle was out with the groomsmen gathering extra chairs for the people arriving in small packs from what seemed like all four corners of the country. Lilith had been put in charge of décor, which was a task she felt had been accomplished with speed and taste. She was extremely proud of her floral choices…and prouder still that she'd managed to completely hide her two trips to the bathroom to throw up.

That was the only real setback to what had started out as a pleasantly eventful day. Not so much the vomit itself, either, but the pains she had to take to disguise her trips as a search for an open sink to get water for flowers, or to fetch a towel to wipe up the milk and egg splattered on the dining room floor.

Lilith hated lying to her friends, and it seemed like she'd had to do a lot of it lately; far more than she was comfortable with, in all honesty. It seemed a cruel twist of fate that she had such good news and she couldn't share it with the people closest to her. Azrael hadn't needed to tell her to keep the subject of their child to herself. His suggestion had merely reinforced her certainty of the security found in silence. While she felt bad for having to hide things from her girls, when she drew up a scale in her mind to weigh them against her new priorities, loves, and soon-to-be family, they came up short.

Azrael had stood beside and behind her for far longer than any of her girls. He knew things about her that no one else did, had seen her through the most difficult parts of her history, and that earned him and his wish of secrecy precedence above all else.

She could recall the expression on her angel's face when he'd mentioned it would be best to avoid calling attention to her pregnancy, the way his eyes had averted from hers in a sign of vulnerability she had never before seen him display. Sure, she had known what it meant – that it was remorse for asking her to hide one more thing – but she hadn't realized how much it bothered him. He had to lie all the time about what he was, what he knew. Was it because he didn't like asking it of her, or could it be something else?

Regardless, Lilith had seen the concern in his face; for all that he had tried to hide it. It had woven around the threshold of fear. Cold, colorless fear, the kind that came from nothing but the overwhelming terror that something was going to happen to someone he loved. Namely Lilith and the baby in her stomach.

That sliver of fear she had seen in his eyes brought her to the realization that despite the apparent calm, cordiality of the relationship between heaven and hell, there was more going on than she had assumed. The calm was an illusion. It was no different than human war, riddled with political rules and corners that pinned the people in place, refuted all attempts to slip from its bonds. The dinner they had attended had tricked her into thinking that all the talk of war had been overly dramatic, engorged by gossip and the severity of the weight either side held over the other. But she had been wrong, and not just because of the incident regarding the note-taking spy.

While the dinner itself had been a ploy to organize a secret meeting of leaders, where they could meet and talk without being held to the suspicion of their actions, there had been no underlying tension that should have been present during a proclaimed time of war. Right? Wrong. There had been no fighting, no assault on heaven's laws, no second strike to light a match which would make things official.

It was politics; pure politics. Both sides had to agree there was war before they could actually do anything, and what did the underlings care if their commanders-in-chief were waltzing around the point, taking jabs at one another with toothpicks? Well, there was probably a lot of care about it, truthfully, but that didn't mean the denizens of heaven or hell were standing on the uneasy point of a dagger, waiting out the calm which played a prelude to a hurricane.

Of course, this was all speculation. What did she know about war, even human war? All the same, she couldn't shake the nasty feeling that there was something going on which had Azrael on edge.

Wasn't that enough to make any soon to be mother anxious?

She was just fluffing the leaves of a floppy iris when Janelle came to fetch her. The blond girl's nose and cheeks were rosy with cold, but her smile was infectious, and did a darn good job of shooing Lilith's momentary gloom.

"It's time to go," she chirped, "get Sarah, will you? We're going to be late if we don't hurry."

"Ok, ok!" Lilith administered one final fluff to the iris and abandoned the rest of her flowers in the kitchen, knowing they would get finished sometime between the hair appointment and starting the ceremony. Grabbing Sarah by the arm and towing her out of the kitchen to put on their coats and boots, tuck waterproof ponchos from an ancient trip to the zoo into her bag (to protect their hair on the trip home), Lilith headed out into the snowy front walkway and tilted her head back to look at the sky.

The cool gray was swirled with flecks of white, which had powdered the landscape with a blanketing of frosted ice. She smiled and spread her arms to twirl slowly about under the fall of snow, laughing at Sarah's sneeze when a cool flake melted on the tip of the redhead's nose.

"How many more chairs?"

At the sound of Alice's voice the two girls romped across the lawn, skidding precariously on a patch of well-packed snow at the edge of the driveway as they approached the bride. Alice was talking to her brothers, older and younger, who had paused mid-haul of a stack of new chairs destined for the studio.

Andrew, or Drew, as he preferred to be called, took a quick count before calling back, "twelve more after these makes twenty." He was seventeen and less than pleased about being in a wedding party, but the physical labor had improved his spirits tenfold within the past few hours.

"Will that be enough?" Alice asked, two which he nodded.

"It should be, unless we're raided by random wedding-goers," he said as their older brother Aaron finished clearing away a patch of slush and proceeded to push the wheeled stack of chairs along the pathway to the studio.

Aaron was a quiet man. Nearing thirty, he was gentle-featured and had a subtle kindness about him which made him exceptionally good with animals, but he hadn't been quite the same since his tour in Afghanistan. Every once in a while he would politely excuse himself from the activity to take a quiet walk alone.

Lilith watched as he stopped wheeling and crouched to greet the graying, one-eared German Shepherd which plodded hesitantly out from the open studio door to sniff around. Aaron's hands in their knit mittens stroked the face and back of the bomb dog he'd brought home from fighting when her leg had been broken and she couldn't run anymore. The gentleness there reminded her of the way Azrael was with Cerberus; acknowledging a bond that had come from enduring things no one should have had to see.

"Alright. We'll be back in a little bit!" Alice waved to her brothers and opened her car door. Janelle, racing out of the house with Ella following close behind, launched herself into the sedan with as much enthusiasm as a child promised a pony.

As Lilith slid in after Sarah, who had graciously accepted the middle seat, she glanced back at the dog that seemed to be sniffing at empty air. Empty air in a roughly canine-shaped space. Upon her notice, the glamour which kept Cerberus out of sight lifted just enough for her to make out the subtle shimmer of dark-furred flanks and the spill of nine, luxurious tails upon the snow.

She felt like the wife of a diplomat, never left alone for the sake of her safety. And something about that thought rang truer than she cared to think about. She was just not important enough for this kind of thing.

* * *

"Oh, please," she whispered imploringly to the zipper at her back. "Please, please, _please…_"

The metallic sound of the zipper sliding together and clinking gently against the catch beneath her shoulder blades evoked a sigh of utter relief from Lilith's lips. She turned to the side, eyeing her profile and paying particular attention to the fit of the pale blue dress across her stomach.

In the week leading up to the wedding, she hadn't paid much attention to herself with picking up extra shifts at work and preparation for the celebration. True, she had been meticulous about what she ate and taking walks every other day to ensure she and her baby remained healthy. She didn't know how she could have missed it, but until she'd found herself in a small fight to get into her bridesmaid dress, she hadn't realized her pregnancy had begun to show.

It was no more than a small bulge at her lower abdomen, and yet, to her, it stuck out as obviously as if she had been at a full nine months along. She hovered anxiously at the bathroom mirror, her hands shivery as she smoothed the fabric along her hips and turned back and forth, trying to decide if it was too noticeable and whether she should _accidentally_ drop her mascara down her front.

Her cowardice fought viciously for dominance over her desire for her friend's wedding to be perfect and lost spectacularly.

Her hand was at the doorknob before she had the time to fully recognize her decision, her feet stepping from linoleum to plush carpet of a bedroom commandeered by the bride's party before she was prepared to face whatever realizations or accusations flew her way. But when she came into view, the girls looked up to see the last of their number dressed and cheered before going about their business of applying makeup and jury rigging shoe-cushion.

No one seemed to notice the way she held her hands, guarded about her abdomen, nor the way she checked every set of eyes to be sure she hadn't been spotted for what she was. Her second sigh went unnoticed as well, but it certainly felt like twenty pounds had been lifted from her bare shoulders.

She accosted Sarah, begging for her talents with eyeshadow, and slipped into borrowed white shoes with straps heavily padded around the back of the ankles. She helped Alice into her small, stylish veil, tucking the tiara into the freshly pinned crown of her dark hair, and presented her fellow women with their versions of the bride's bouquet. An iris with a small, decorative accent of freesia for all three bridesmaids and for Ella, and the bouquet completed with baby's breath and extra leaves for Alice.

She placed the flowers, tied with white ribbon, in Alice's hands, looking up to see her friend's face aglow with the flush of happiness and excitement. There wasn't a trace of anxiety in Alice's face, no sign of worry or of second thoughts. Lilith envied that complete lack of negativity, that absolute faith that her choices were the right ones. She wished she could be as certain about herself as Alice was.

In what felt like mere seconds, it was time.

The women trooped down the stairs to meet the men in the foyer just outside the studio entrance. They were handsome and looking smart in their rented tuxes. Drew looked a little mulish now that he was being made to prance around in a suit, but he straightened when Lilith approached to take her assigned place next to him. She'd been partnered with him due to her lack of height compared to Sarah and Janelle, but she didn't mind. There was nothing threatening about the seventeen-year-old boy who buried himself in video games in his spare time.

Music from the grand piano May had had moved from her living room floated from between the crack under the door, sweet and bright and complimentary for the wintery day. Upon the signal from someone stationed outside the door as Elijah's friend Craig knocked and took Sarah's arm upon preparation to enter, the melody changed, just subtly enough to be recognized without jarring the ears.

Sarah and Craig stepped through the doorway, followed shortly by Janelle and Aaron. When it was their turn, Drew stepped up to the door, held out his arm for her, and led her onto the aisle between the rows of tables as though he had never once looked sour about his part to play. His steps mirrored hers perfectly, and she could hear him counting softly under his breath to keep steady with the melodic swish of her blue fishtail skirt. They split off at the front of the room, the small multipurpose platform serving as an alter holding both pastor and small table with legal documents to be signed, the men to the right to stand beside Elijah, and the women to the left to stand in an organized row to await Alice.

Then the music changed again. It was a smooth, easy shift into a new song that was (as Alice had requested) most definitely not the traditional bridal theme, made by the soft crooning of a violin in delicate harmony with the piano's notes.

All eyes turned to the door as Alice entered, arm-in-arm with her father, his black hair streaked with gray and his aged face beaming with pride and happiness for his daughter. Alice seamed to float, her steps gliding beneath her pristine white dress, her grandmother's pears gleaming at her throat, her pink-painted lips smiling and her eyes fixed to the man who, after today, would be her husband.

When Alice's hand passed from father to fiancé, the couple lingered, just smiling at each other, standing before the pastor who had already begun to speak of loving and honoring and cherishing. When their vows were spoken, their signatures given, their words and rings exchanged, Elijah lifted brushed the veil from his new wife's face and kissed her with a tenderness that seemed to fill the room with warmth.

Lilith's breath caught in her chest, the lurch so sharp that she wondered if she might cry. She swallowed, her smile for Alice's glowing happiness faltered, slipping beneath the rolling wave of sorrow that seemed to purge everything else from her ability to feel.

Though no tears were shed, and she chalked it up to hyperactive hormones, the bittersweet mixture of cheer and sadness remained behind to clog her senses. She could barely remember how she'd gotten to a table to sit down with her fellow bridesmaids once the ceremony was over and the reception had started. She just remembered Sarah's tearful remarks about how beautiful it had been, Mark coming over from congratulating the newlyweds to ask his girlfriend for a dance, and Janelle asking her if she had a headache.

"What? Oh, no, I'm fine." Lilith laughed when Janelle gave her a look which very clearly said, _you're full of crap. _"My brain was somewhere else."

Janelle still looked suspicious, but dropped the issue. Instead, she set down one of the glasses she carried and nudged it toward Lilith's side of the table. "Here," she said, "everyone should drink at a wedding."

Sniffing the peachy-colored liquid and smelling alcohol and fruit, Lilith asked, "what is it?"

The blond grinned. "Peach schnapps. Try it, it's tasty."

Though she considered trying it, considered telling herself _to hell with it,_ she remembered the negative affects of alcohol on unborn children and decided her avoidance of alcohol would have to remain in tact until the baby was born. She shook her head and set the glass down; tucking a loose curl back from her face so it would meld with the classy half-up arrangement the stylist had given her dark hair. "No thanks, Jelly," Lilith refused and pushed the glass back across the table.

"Your loss." Janelle sipped at the last of her liqueur and offered, "do you want anything else? Some water?" When Lilith shook her head again, she nodded her assent and took the untouched booze before getting to her feet. Janelle was good about knowing when a person was feeling down and didn't want to talk. "I'm gonna go grab a dance with that hot cousin of whatever side of the family."

Lilith followed the line of Janelle's sight and spotted the dark haired young man talking to Craig and a few of the older guests, the one sporting a goatee and a green silk tie. While she watched, the man's hazel eyes flickered over a great-aunt's shoulder to catch Janelle's. "Pretty," she agreed, "just be nice and don't eat him, ok?"

With a delicate snort, Janelle gave her an affectionately passive smile. "I'm not Sarah. Or, how Sarah was..."

They both turned in unison to find their redheaded friend, who was occupied by the upbeat song and dancing to it with her boyfriend. She had her arms in the air, swaying back and forth, her cheeks a pink to rival the shade of her lipstick; her laughter was inaudible from the distance between her and their table, but it was joyous, and an even match to the delighted devotion radiating from Mark's grinning attempts to match her steps.

"D'you think he'd good for her?"

Though Janelle's tone was lined with question, her uneasiness was driven primarily by Sarah's somewhat infamous tendency to choose boys that were bad for her. It was an understandable question, too. But Lilith only shrugged. "He seems to genuinely give a crap. And since he's the one doing most of the pursuing, I'd say he is."

Janelle laughed. "_Pursuing,_ huh?"

"Shush." Lilith's blush was small, but flooded her with its uncomfortable warmth. It appeared she had adopted some of Azrael's wording. "You know what I mean."

The other girl's mouth curved with a small smile as she took another glance toward Sarah. "You're probably right. Hey, speaking of relationships—"

Lilith felt something clench in her stomach. She could hear the inquiry before it hit the air, before it was so much as a drop on Janelle's tongue. It was in the blonde's face, the way her eyes strayed slightly downward before rising to touch her face and settle there with traces of concern and curiosity. Suddenly she wanted to be somewhere else – anywhere else – to avoid having to create some kind of acceptable answer.

"Have you heard anything from Adrian? They can send letters and stuff, right?"

Her eyes weren't able to lift from the table spread with white linen, as though they were far too heavy to move. There was a lump in her throat, tight and dry and hurtful. Her fingers had unconsciously curled into the slippery fabric that covered the small bulge in her stomach. She felt cornered and alone without any reason to be. She wanted to say yes, to weave some lovely story about her human soldier-dancer who had written her a precious note filled with longings and love, who said he wanted to come home and marry her and buy a house with her…like humans were supposed to. But for some reason, she simply couldn't speak.

Janelle's lips were gentle upon her forehead, her arms warm and her honey blond hair soft against Lilith's cheek when the other girl leaned forward to give her a hug. "I'm sorry, honey. I shouldn't have brought it up—"

"It's ok," Lilith whispered, touching her hand to Janelle's back and resting her head briefly against the blonde's thin shoulder.

"Still…" Pulling back, Janelle added, "you know I'm here if you need anything?"

The brunette nodded, if a little tiredly. "I know." She hoped the words didn't sound as empty as she thought they did. While she felt drained, she didn't want Janelle to think she was trying to get rid of her, because she wasn't. Alone time did sound nice, though.

Janelle left her with another hug and the still untouched glass of peach schnapps, the blonde's understanding of personal space during times of emotional stress a downright blessing in the eyes of her friend. And as Lilith sat there, taking a moment just to breathe in the hubbub of post-ceremony niceties, she could feel the lightest brush of a warm, furred body to her shins. Cerberus, invisible and untouchable to every other body in the room as he was, curled up at the base of her chair, his body serving as a link to the world she hadn't realized she missed. She loved her friends more than she had words for, but at that moment she would have given anything to be curled up on Azrael's big, canopied bed with a cup of coffee, listening to him read aloud.

Discreetly lowering her hand to avoid being seen, she sank her fingers into the thick fur of the hell hound's ruff, enjoying the tiny flecks of magic that fizzled upon her skin when she neared his chakra bespelled collar.

The warm thrum of the great dog's half-purring noise of contentment washed her with calm, enough to soothe the ache of unnecessary loneliness from the cracks in her stability.

It was so soothing, in fact, that she didn't realize she had company until his shadow moved to color the tablecloth a darker shade of white. It startled her, but not enough to warrant jumping or squealing, or any other such undignified show of surprise; just enough to cause a small start before she looked up.

"Um—hi," Aaron had either deliberately removed his tie, or else had misplaced it somewhere between that moment and the ceremony's end. The resemblance he shared with his younger sister was complimentary to the warm tone of his light tan and dark brown eyes, his features, delicate like Alice's, were sturdier and more masculine, as though he had been the model for her face before her genes decided to become female. He looked faintly awkward regretful, as though he suddenly wished he hadn't approached her at all.

While she had only met him once before, Lilith had already decided she liked him. He had a slow, moderate sensitivity to all the things she usually disliked about men in her age range, and carried himself with a respectful inclination toward other people. True, there was the occasional haunted shadow that would cross his face, but that was nothing to hold against him. War did things to people. She knew that now.

"Hi Aaron," she offered him a smile and a seat. "Do you want to sit down?" She spoke gently, as one would with a frightened child, but without the patronizing edge many adults used. Since he was already looking a little jumpy, it seemed appropriate to be extra nice.

Though she suspected he was seriously considering a choice to flee, he only hovered for a brief, anxious second before taking the chair to her right. Cerberus lifted his tails out of the way as Aaron pulled the seat a tiny bit closer to her. "Thanks." He eyes dropped to the surface of the table, picking idly at a hangnail with restless hands to avoid saying something.

She knew that feeling all too well. "How's school?" she asked. "Alice told me the marines are paying for vet-tech classes."

It was a completely different man awakened behind his face; when his chin lifted and his eyes cleared, she saw the smile of quiet pleasure coaxed from its nervous shell at the mention of a neutral subject. "I like school," he told her, "it gives me a purpose and teaches me how to save lives. Little lives," he amended as though he felt he ought to explain properly. "But still, lives."

"That's great." Lilith smiled at him, heartened by the lighter, happier tone that seemed to fill out his physical persona.

Aaron's eyes were warm when they met hers, and crinkled at the corners with tiny lines carved by both laughter and tears. They were human eyes; keepers of human joys and human pain, belonging to a man who had been aged too much far before his time.

Something inside her had begun to ache. Though she had no name or describable reason for it, no source, nor treatment; she could feel the tired soreness, like that of an old wound which had been difficult to heal, pressing down on her shoulders and her lungs. Corrosive and tangled, it strung about her organs and pulled at the seams connecting the fibers and strings of her body to the delicate workings of her mind. Without reason to explain it; she knew the cause was the similarities she could see in those human eyes to someone she loved. They were similarities that, by religious ordinance, should not have existed.

She looked away, severing the connection that had momentarily served as a link between them.

It was her understanding that had opened the door to him, but without the contact, it was useless and faded away – stale with an awkwardness that lacked the clumsiness implied by the particular term. Without the connection, his eyes fell, retreating to the relative safety of the hands folded in his lap.

And yet, a fragment remained. An infinitesimal piece of likeness remained behind, having fallen to rest on the young man's heart, made evident by the way he still seemed more relaxed with her than he had the rest of the evening. It was the kind of bond she recognized as belonging between two people who had known fear, abuse, or trauma.

"I heard," he said, his murmur enveloped by a softness weighted by equal portions of hesitation and decision. "About your—boyfriend?" There was a small breath taken before he uttered the word which would mark her as off-limits to his moral code; hope, enclosed within the shell of polite empathy.

Her nod was faint, bolstered by the press of Cerberus's warm head to her shin.

His stature seemed to wilt – a hearty plant weighted down by hard-packed snow – but only before he caught himself and straightened, his shoulders firming. "I'm sorry."

The words, tired by the world's incessant use of them for meaningless, generic gestures (most commonly when there was nothing to say), were honest. His voice held the note of sympathy reached only by experience and concluded with knowledge. Though he didn't truly know what it was he sympathized with, there was only so much variance between mortal and immortal wars. Everything was connected, from the battles to the anxious families and loved ones of the soldiers, and his empathy cradled the innocent sincerity of a child in the arms of a grown man. A rare but coveted combination.

To her shame, it made the crack of loneliness inside her all the deeper.

She looked at Aaron through weary eyes and felt as though she owed him the same manner of immediate affection he seemed to have found for her. Once, she might have been thrilled to meet someone like him, with such a soft manner and inherent sweetness; once he could have been her prince charming, had circumstances bee different. But she knew that whatever relationship, platonic or otherwise, would never have been the same, not after all she'd witnessed. It simply hadn't been fated.

"I pray he comes home safe to you." Aaron's voice was steady by then, steady enough to hide the disappointment that tried to cloud his gentle face. The smile he bestowed upon the white linen tablecloth, however, was lit with a certain kind of knowing. It was the kind of smile which said, _he's a lucky man, _without ever needing to speak a word.

She was grateful for his tact and for the easy concession to her wishes both to avoid being pursued and to change subjects. While the inquiry of whether she would like to dance was unexpected, to say the least, it gave her an excuse to brush aside her troubles for a few moments and be human again, to be consumed by something besides the weight lying heavy on her heart. Cerberus uncoiled from around her legs as she got to her feet, took Aaron's offered hand, and allowed herself to be led into the open circle of dancing guests.

Her heart didn't go into much by way of style or grace. In a room of dancers she would have stuck out like the ugly duckling, turning and weaving and stepping with a plain kind of momentum guided purely by the sounds of the music. It was some new song, half ballad and half electronic, that caused the floor to quiver beneath her bare feet (heels discarded and left under her chair). But despite the mixed tones and rhythms, she found she could still get lost in music, that it was still a part of her, to want to mingle and commune with it. As least that much hadn't changed.

With the swish of the skirt about her knees, she practiced the age-old method of forgetting one's worries by drowning in physical sense. Her eyes closed, her hand full of skirt to keep from falling flat on her face, she performed a light little twirl, and wound up staring into the collar of a crisp Canali suit; crow black with tiny, widely spaced white pinstripes.

The laughing apology died upon her lips, melting back into her mouth like a dollop of some sweet, spiced honey. Recognition enveloped her with the reach of its indescribable warmth, without prompt or reason. With nothing but the inkling tingle of familiarity along her spine to tell her otherwise, she chanced a glance upward at the man, a stranger in everything but that strange sensation of déjà vu.

She knew him before she saw beneath the gossamer spell. With the touch of his presence flowing across her skin like some unprincipled, unnamed liquid, she couldn't have missed it. Yet only when their eyes met did she realize the black-haired, sturdy-set youth was someone she knew quite well indeed.

From beneath the glamour veiling his face and structure, Azrael granted her a small smile, his eyes gentle, if falsely darkened to a shade nearer to black than she had ever seen it before, and inquired of Aaron; "may I cut in?"

"Sure," Aaron backed off somewhat quickly, which Lilith surmised was due to Azrael's generously more than acute skill with compulsion magic. With a little wave, the human left her to what he viewed as a replacement in the small line of hopeful men who would ultimately be turned down.

It was as if the angel's arrival altered the mood of the entire building, from the gradual hush that came over the guests to the slowed, softened tune of piano and vocals adopted a similar flush of fulfillment just from knowing he was there. He took the physical guise of a polite stranger, holding a measurable distance between their bodies when his arm slid about her waist. Shiny black shoes guided her slowly backward, sideways, and around in a variation on a casual box step. Under the masquerade, it was a parody of an unschooled dancer.

And yet the warmth from his hand sank into her lower back and spread outward. It soothed the anxieties, the incessant clamor of unbidden thoughts persistent and vocal in her mind by dulling them to silence filled by the beat of his heart and the purposeful rhythm of his breath. She hadn't realized one of those worries had involved the fear that the battle, which Cerberus had unintentionally signaled had begun by his even tighter cling to her. It made no difference now, because he was well. And therefore, so was she.

While all she really wanted was to wrap her arms around him and hold him close for as long as she could, she had the sense to retain the proper distance deserving of a casual, unknown dance partner.

He looked neither worn nor strained, though she supposed he could hide either or both with glamour. But she hoped he hadn't, and that it served as a good sign that he wasn't too affected by the negativity going on elsewhere.

"Cerberus has been anxious," she told him quietly, knowing that he would be warping the sounds they made so the words sounded mundane and uninteresting, full of talk about the weather and other neutral subjects. "You've started fighting for real, haven't you?"

His grip at her back changed no more than a fraction of a molecule, yet she had felt it clearly; a light flinch away from the topic he couldn't safely discuss with her. It was both affirmation and silent request for her to let the topic lie. As she looked up into his face, a face with alien qualities blurred and stretched across features she could recall by memory, she realized she didn't need to speak of it. And she really was trying not to be so curious about the differences between human and angelic battle.

"Never mind, then."

A gliding step betrayed his grace, hidden beneath a faux stumble for the sake of any observation of happenstance. Her toes brushed the instep of his shoe and he paused as though trying to avoid crushing her. "Yes," he answered her, delayed, but no less significant for it. "We have."

She remained quiet, even as he began the dance again, refreshing the slowly spiraling motion of his direction with a falsified effort to concentrate. There wasn't much to say after that, truthfully. What _could_ she say? That she was sorry? Not what he needed to hear. To ask for details? Not an inquiry he could oblige her. What was proper? What was she to give him, when no words seemed to fit her disappointment that the upset hadn't merely been that: an upset, small, fickle, and temporary?

Her fingers curled into the expensive weave of the suit jacket where it lay across his shoulder, the tiny white pattern adding a kind of depth to the cloth. It seemed to give her focus, the harder she stared at it, until she could lift her face and look at him again. She didn't realize she was steeling herself, but her voice came more steadily than she could have hoped when she told him; "I'm glad you're ok."

With a smile exuding both gratitude and a gentle affection, he took the opening she offered and ran with it. "I cannot stay much longer." His expression was carefully blank, wiped of the regret that showed behind his eyes. He never wanted to leave her – that much she knew already – but especially not now, due to circumstances she was reminded of when he spun her gently into his chest and touched the inside of his wrist to her stomach and the small bulge beneath it.

She was smiling by the time she could see the mixture of pride and happiness in his face. There was no need for him to vocalize that he had come to make sure she was faring well; the gestures said enough.

There was a subtle swell of magic, raising a transparent curtain around them, which would shield them from unwelcome eyes and paint a different picture of what was going on between two apparent strangers.

Azrael pulled her close, touching his cheek to her hair. "You look lovely," he told her softly, "now be happy," his fingers cupped her chin, his nose brushing the tip of hers in a loving manner, "just for a little while longer. I will return to escort you back for the remainder of your term when April dawns."

She grasped at what she knew was the coming end to a far too brief meeting, as if she somehow had the power to prolong it. Clutch though she might, his form became airy and shallow, as though the atoms that held his body together were spreading apart, filling with air. She could no longer hold him, though his image remained, voicing some empty thanks for the dance and an equally empty farewell.

Yet she could feel the touch of his hands, cool to her warm face, and his mouth against hers before he drew away completely.

"I love you," she whispered, "be safe."

She no longer heard the ebb and flow of sound around her, nor the voices that rose to take the place of the music as Alice made ready for the bouquet toss minus one bridesmaid. All was a dull, shapeless hum inside her head, echoed by the depthless beat of her heart. The faint thud of her heels against the floor was the loudest, dejected thing she heard. As she crossed the studio, past the tables and toward an empty window seat, she was overcome with the anguish of having done the very opposite of what she had been told.

He had asked her to be happy tonight, just for tonight, and yet she felt neither any remaining happiness nor the urge to feign it. For all she loved Alice, she could not find the energy or the heart to do anything but look outside at the steady mid-February snowfall and wish it was the final night of March.

Sarah's spectacular catch of the bouquet went unnoticed, as was the laughter-ridden beginning of the retrieving and tossing of the garter, but Lilith did not remain alone for very long before she was joined at the window seat by a matching pale blue dress. Sarah alone had discovered her missing friend, and, after handing off the flowers to Mark, had ventured beyond the crowd to find her.

With a soft swish, the redhead sat across from the brunette atop the stiffly padded niche in the southern wall. With sad brown eyes, she reached out and settled a sympathetic hand on the other girl's knee, then pulled Lilith into her arms when the tears began to fall, warm and wet against the dry cold of the windowpane.

No one heard or saw, no one knew. No one but Sarah and an invisible dog lying just beneath their feet.

* * *

— **Early January, 136 A.D.; roughly 100 miles north of Hadrian's Wall —**

Snow should have been white, not red. And yet the slurry of slush, mud, vomit, and blood churned by the hooves of the horses couldn't rightfully be called snow at all. It clumped and hardened around watery ruts along the rough hewn road leading to the mouth of the forest; a trail of remnants from a battleground, the bodies from which had long since been carried off to be burned.

The horses plunged forward, carried down the shallow banks of the stream and across its chilly water, swollen by snowmelt from the hills, as if the wind itself nipped at their heels. Sod and powdery ice crystals kicked up a heavy cloud in their wake.

Once the stream had been cleared and the trees had grown sparse about them, the three riders urged their mounts to slow, easing their strides to a halt that was riddled with snorting, shifting horses, the air turned white with the mist of their breath. It was the man to the fore of the trio who turned to address the others, his dark hair a gathered snarl of tiny braids and white feathers at the nape of his neck.

"Wait here," he said, the strong words of the northern dialect solid and savory upon his tongue. His entourage neither spoke nor moved but to mark his command with a shared nod, and when he directed his bay forward across the snow-laden moor, they remained behind, stoic and silent as statues toyed with by the icy wind.

As his mount picked its way down the slope, he lifted his violet gaze skyward to take note of the time in the position of the muted sun. He could hear the words crossed between his human guards, their voices contrasting hues woven in the tapestry of all there was to occupy his ears, and tossed a simple spell back over his shoulder to conceal anything that might occur from their senses. The sparks of magic glittered like gems as he scattered them in his wake, forming a boundary between him and the humans he sought to protect.

The trees here were barren and frigid, riddled with frost that formed icy, dripping trails from the wooded branches. A colorless background made it all too easy to spot the scarlet and gold raiment of the men he had come to meet with.

"You are late," the golden one stated, the disapproval in his voice echoing some long standing argument that had never been finished. Fiery amber eyes raked the newcomer's guise, from leather leggings and boots, the silvery wolf pelt which draped one shoulder, to the blue-gray paint which drew strong marks across a fine-featured face. His nostrils flared, breathing in the faint mixture of sandalwood and ember fire which left a signature upon the cloth and fur he did not like. "And have obviously been consorting with creatures yet again, regardless of the state of things. You look like a savage."

Azrael's heels dug into his horse's flanks, sending the beast charging forward, kicking up earth and snow under sharp hooves. One hand moved with the liquid speed of a snake, drawing the knife from his belt and pressing the blade to his brother's jaw as his mount's hide brushed the rump of Michael's stallion and came to a tense, quivering halt.

"Only so savage as you, brother," he murmured, his eyes fixed to the golden eyes boring deep into his own over the bluish sheen of the blade. "The state of things has nothing to do with who or what I choose to converse with."

The rage had come out of nowhere, boiling from a place that remained undefined and unreasoned. It grew easier and easier to access, however, as time went on. He didn't understand it, or why it made him do things that seemed to outside of his own character, and yet he knew no cure but to plow through it, purge it from his system and recover. His desire to defend the honor of his sources and followers was justified but the manner in which he had gone about doing so had been careless at best. It was neither wise nor a reasonable cause for such a violent reaction.

Shoving back against the fury, he managed to pin it behind the walls of better judgment, using the flow of chakra to cool his temperament. While his mask never once slipped, he allowed himself to sink back into the settled structure of observance, silence, and stillness that he kept inside, sliding into it as though adopting a second, calming skin.

Gloved fingers pushed the knife from a bared throat, leaving a tiny trickle of blood to trail from a cut which closed within the span of a breath. "Try that again," Michael vowed, "and I will see you seated permanently with the hellspawn you so dearly love."

"All right…" Uriel's voice was mild as ever, yet it tore through the wind, rending the tension into shreds with the force of his displeasure. His gray gelding's hide was draped with the scarlet of its rider's cloak, which Uriel tossed over his shoulder, extracting a crude, bloodied, oil-streaked blade from beneath its folds. "This was why we called you here." He presented it to Azrael.

It was an obvious diversion, but one the other two seraphim took with a grudging grace and smoothed feathers. Neither Michael's pride nor Azrael's simmering wellspring of anger held precedence over more important things.

"It was stuck in the chest of one of my watchers," the dark-eyed angel said, "in a way that seemed more deliberate than a simple kill stroke. I need to know if it held more meaning."

"Hm," Azrael sheathed his knife with a short snap of metal, his eyes flickering to Michael with an expression of blank disregard. "And you?"

Michael didn't answer, refusing the niceties of wartime protocol to state a purpose for attendance if asked. Not that the bout of deliberate silence was a surprise…Michael was not about to answer to someone he saw as even marginally inferior.

Taking the short, angular piece of sharpened metal by a jutting edge of hardened ceramic welded into the iron, he hefted its weight and touched a finger to the oil which had crusted into a dry film along the length of the dulled side of the blade. There was a tiny surge of recognition, a pulse beneath his fingertips. As he wiped away the grime with a careful marks for burning, cutting, and tracking seared into life from where they had been etched into the metal. They screeched with the acrid tang of demonic magic laced with malcontent, glowing and eerie blood red.

He dropped it as though it had struck him, avoiding its poisoned spell by tossing it to the snow. Leaping from his horse, he slapped his palm into its flank to startle it into fleeing, calling the magic from his core into a swirling mass of energy charged to his fingertips. "_Vhish_," he cried, "this is a trap!"

A circular, bladed disc shot through the brush to one side, seeking to lodge itself in Uriel's heart. The angel deflected with a short, sharp defensive maneuver, jerking his gelding to the left and bringing up his longbow, spelled arrow strung, in a swift arc to aim at the small hoard streaming from the edge of the forest.

Ashen-skinned, with hair the color of bleached bone and eyes like empty coals, the demons melted from the snowy shadows, the corded, muscle-shaped surfaces of their armor colored with the dulled blackened char of baked clay fortified with brimstone. At their wrists and elbows sprouted wicked blades which curved backward and forward, designed to slice through the delicate bones of an angel's wings, among other things.

There were twelve altogether, and split apart as they drew near, scattering to make eradication difficult and surging toward the seraphim. Their pitiless faces were completely empty, driven only by the details of their mission. _Vhish; _immortal assassins of a skilled and tireless breed. They had been lower level angels once, fallen for crimes of violence and a taste for slaughter. Now they were little more than weaponized talents encased in demon flesh, with little individuality or soul left to preserve them.

Michael wheeled his stallion about, drawing the broadsword from his side and leaning forward to thrust it through the chest of an oncoming demon. The spells and power etched and imprinted into the blade burned like licks of flame along the heavy edge as he swung it over his head and sideways to clash with the wrist blade of another. Sparks glittered in the air, raining down onto the snow and hissing as tiny holes were melted into the frosty ground.

As though he had utilized the fire from a phoenix's birth, heat and light flared from the friction of the two blades, drowning out the dying rays of sun from between the trees above. The clearing was ringed by the fires of the warrior seraph's spirit energy, an undying burn which needed no fuel and could incinerate a demonic shell from five feet away. Holy fire – cleansing fire. It isolated the angels from the trees, in the hopes that it might keep any further ambush participants at a manageable distance. The sepia of bark and white of snow were dyed with the golden orange of God's Justice.

The fire scorched its way down the edge of Michael's sword, Aequitas. Creeping like a vine, the tendrils of golden flame coiled and squeezed between the joints of the demon's armor until it burst apart. As it shrieked and flailed, the air filled with the scent of smoldering flesh, Michael flipped his sword and sent it whistling through the skull of the unholy creature who dared to oppose him.

Uriel's bowstring sang, punching through a demon's armor with two spell-tipped arrows which exploded upon spoken word. Ceramic splintered, stained by globs of organs and peppered with blood, falling harmlessly to the ground around the decimated corpse.

Darkness seeped upward from the ground, as if the earth itself had given up some of its rich blackness to the angel's will. It seized the would-be-backstabber by the ankles with sly, silent tendrils and held it fast. Uriel's eyes were vacant as he sank a long, curved scimitar into the kidney of a third demon, but as his foot shoved firmly against the gurgling demon's chest to free his blade, he calmly dispatched the creature at his back with a thick rope of shadow borrowed from the earth. It choked as it was thoroughly strangled.

Throwing his knife, Azrael struck one demon through the forehead, rejoicing in neither its heavy body's drop to the ground nor the snuff of its life from the mortal plain. He abandoned the weapon, and met the charge of his next opponent head on, shoulders straight and muscles coiled. Hands held straight and flat, he pulled his magic down into his fingers to pool and heat like liquid fire.

The demon swung at him, aiming for his chest. He hit back, striking the demon's wrist with lightning charged fingertips that drove the bones in its wrist together, using his magic to seize the muscle and rend the tender vessels apart. The pressure point burst, splitting bones and shooting the pain of tearing flesh all the way up the creature's arm.

A second strike shattered the connection between body and brain, severing the life from the physical world so quickly that the body had no time to seize before collapsing into a heap.

He could feel the steps cease behind him, the arc of winter air which altered the distance between himself and the demon at his back. His senses sharpened, his nostrils flaring to catch the scent of oil and ash. Instinctively he went to one knee, forcing the swing to go cold as the demon's leap overshot and it landed, twisting to right itself, inches before him. Spreading his fingertips, he reached upward and caught the assassin before it could turn, piercing the armor at its lower back with delicate points of inhuman force.

_Gift me with your life… _

His magic flowed, eager and efficient, whispering words that coaxed and implored as sweetly as a siren's song. Blood poured from the creature's orifices, dripping like water from a drowning man's pores to drench the frozen ground, staining it with death. He forced it out like a plague from an invalid's veins, shoving the liquid out through nose, mouth, ears, and eyes.

The demon shuddered, convulsing in an instinctual attempt to break the contact that leeched the life force from its body; but Azrael's grip merely tightened. His eyes darkened, pooling with blackness as the blood pooled upon the snow, holding his spell until the body sagged, drained and useless as a marionette. As he let go, dropping the empty body to the ground, he stood, drawing his other hand across his painted face, eyes lined with an ice unbefitting the compassionate face death had vowed to forever wear.

Spellmarks flared, enhanced by the lull of his voice which charmed them into flying. The burning marks lodged into the skull of the demon that had reached to gouge out Michael's golden eyes. While Michael had already caused its heart to burst with the righteous power of his fire, the thing had struggled until the very last breath to fulfill its task as ordained by the devil. Azrael's barbs had done little more than shut it up.

Their breath casting frigid clouds of warm fog upon the chill around them, the three seraphim paused after the sudden cease of battle's rage. Time seemed to catch up with them, almost as though the world hadn't dared to go on without their permission, and the rush of it drew their eyes as one to the empty bodied littering the slushy remnants of an untouched piece of landscape. Yet it was the utter stillness of the earth that had their guard lingering, their mental shields held in place. It was too quiet, even for a winter morning. Too silent, too motionless, and far too white.

"Shield your eyes," Azrael urged his brothers as he sent a thread of his gift to line and veil his own irises against the spell that bleached the scenery behind Michael's ring of fire. "We are yet being deceived."

Uriel's dark, bottomless eyes veiled immediately with shadow, protecting himself from the grounds of deceptive illusion. His fingers flexed upon the hilt of his blade before wiping it briefly upon his thigh and stowing it away in favor of his longbow. The bolt he drew from the quiver strung across his back gleamed with marks for piercing and accuracy, the fletching brushed his palm as he put it to the string and waited, ready for a signal.

Michael kneed his stallion forward, lining his eyes with strength to block out deceit. Drawing near to the clump of scraggly shrubs from whence the small horde had appeared, he surveyed the place for the shimmer of a hellish gateway, which might hint at more to fight.

Stepping carefully on flat-soled boots, Azrael managed to avoid flattening the snow beneath him, and the crunching sound which would have resulted. Slowly he circled the clearing, eyes flickering from tree to tree, brush to ground and back, searching for a foe he could neither see nor sense. Neither was surprising. There were spells to conceal the imprint of spiritual energy and chakra alike. However, it wasn't pleasant to be unawares of the imminent danger lurking somewhere he couldn't pinpoint. He didn't like the feeling of being watched.

The flutter of a twig against another surface, dry and far off, offered a trace of depth. Uriel's bowstring tightened, Michael's grip firmed upon his blade, and Azrael stopped to listen.

The movement had stopped. Silence lay like thick velvet over everything it touched, heavy as the snow and twice as insulating, and yet the sensation of strange eyes remained. They were lying in wait; a dormant malice with rank breath and intentions to make what clean snow remained turn sour with stains. Azrael stared out into a patch of thick forest, seeing both nothing and everything. His lips pulled back from his teeth to issue a low, menacing hiss, a promise of swift discipline to whoever threatened his kind.

The aura about his fur-swathed body expanded, swelling with power that sparked with a regal purpose, and somewhere beyond those trees was a tingle of recognition.

After several moments passed, Michael retracted the flat of his sword from where he'd been inspecting the brush. His close-cropped hair, warm brown highlighted with pure gold, caught a glimmer of light. "For God's sake," he swore, "I will _flush_ it out. Then we'll be done with this idiocy."

He started forward, making for the trees, his patience run thin enough to crack.

Distracted by the foolishness of the proposition, Azrael's focus shifted, swung quickly toward his brother to eye Michael with something akin to incredulity. To go out there without support was just begging to be ambushed again, and quite possibly executed for his folly. "_Michael ha'hrane_—!"

Bursting from the cover of trees and over the protective fire circle as though forcibly expelled, the source of the remnant malignant energy launched itself through the air and over Uriel's gelding, which reared and screamed with a mix of fury and fear. The seraph's arrow flew true, lodging deep into the flesh of its lower back and bursting a hole several inches thick through its spine.

And while it staggered, wounded it pressed on, streaking toward Azrael.

The spells for safety and shielding sparked upon his tongue, but for some reason they couldn't catch. Slower than cold honey, the marks lagged, refusing to fall. By then the creature was nearly descending upon him, all empty eyes and flashing elbow-blades, carried forward by Michael's shout of startled outrage and for his fire to envelop the assassin. Though he knew exactly what was happening, he could not force himself to move. He remained tense, wound tight and alert, and immobile.

With mere inches to spare, the demon's arm arced, angling to cut the head from his shoulders. That was when the knife flew true, from nowhere and out of nothing but the metallic silver sparks of magical aid, to turn decapitation on the intended assailant instead.

Seizing once, the body dropped to the frosty ground, oozing black blood where its head had once connected to its neck and had partially separated to form a yawning gouge.

The line which had spelled him broken, Azrael shook out of the half-trance and shot a chilly stare toward Michael. "That could have been your head rolling," he remarked, matter-of-fact despite the cold edge to the blade of his words.

Michael's way of expressing dismissal was to dismount and begin seeing to the wound in his stallion's left hindquarter. "And yet I am not the one who froze in the face of danger, am I?" Uriel's near-silent sigh sank into the wind as the silvery figure approaching from the trees entered the clearing, greeted by Michael's disgusted sneer. "Pet of yours, come to wag its tail and beg for praise."

The only response he received from Beelzebub was a jaunty grin with a little extra show of unnaturally sharp canines before crossing the clearing with a bristle of black fur.

Azrael hissed quietly at his brother while he crouched and jerked the demon prince's knife from the frozen ground. It was far longer than a knife had any right to be, two feet in length, beautifully curved and constructed of a balanced heft which, when combined with a bit of reinforcement, sheared through bone quite smoothly. "My thanks," he murmured, holding out the blade for its owner to return it to the sheath at his boot.

The demon's silvery hair glinted in the drab gray light as he tucked his knife away. "My loyalty," he replied, and then raised his voice for Michael to hear. "Not your problem if father-dearest views a mage as more of a viable threat than a pig-sticker."

Michael's eyes narrowed dangerously, turning to golden slits which complimented the thin slivers of Beelzebub's pupils.

"Shall I put on my claws for you, lambling?" Beelzebub jeered, flexing his yet humanoid fingers.

"_Enough,_" Uriel asserted, steering his gelding to step between both sides and blocking Michael from hearing Azrael's snort of amusement. The watcher's smooth face descended to his golden sibling, his voice just barely hinting at the weariness he felt. "We must return to Rome," he said, "we have learned that the signs meant no more than that we would be wiser to leave our cavalry to their own business, at least for the time being. We can do no more good here."

Michael swung to his horse's back, his natural dislike for remaining in a position of lower stature urging him to the saddle, where he sat straight and tall with his chin lifted and self-righteous temper coloring his skin. "I will not be spoken to so crassly by a—"

"By a what?" Beelzebub mocked.

But Uriel intervened, using his gelding's far superior weight and size to push at Michael until the other angel had no option but to start moving. "We will maintain the rendezvous assignments unless something changes," the dark seraph called to Azrael over his shoulder, "my missive should reach you in three days' time should an amendment be made."

Azrael turned his back to them once they had crossed the threshold between clearing and brush, leaving his friend and companion to watch their horses tails vanish behind the shade of the trees. His painted face was grim as he toed the moldering remains of his would-be assassin, finding the amulet meant to keep his protective magic hobbled enough to score a kill; a stone of deep crimson strung around the thing's emaciated waist.

His temper was what sent the thread of his energy into its core, where it coiled and grew, expanding and swelling until its feeble shell cracked and burst beneath the force of his strength.

"A pointless endeavor," the angel murmured, his grayed eyes cold. "Attaching tails to two seraph generals in order to track down one…there was no gain."

Beelzebub's laugh was dry. "I beg to differ," he remarked in answer. But Azrael had not heard him.

With a ripple of silver fur, Azrael stepped away from the imprints of carnage and whistled softly for his mount. She hadn't gone far, and so was quickly trotting back to him through the naked brush, fidgety with nerves, with otherwise unaffected. With a soothing touch, he calmed her anxiety, breathing gently upon her nose to secure their bond above all other things.

"Do you mean to return to whence you came, wherever that was?"

"The Wall," the demon said, answering the partially unspoken part of the question, and shook his head. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather stick close and keep an eye on you, at least until Bal's precious Ides of March."

Azrael's smile was vague, if affectionate. "As you wish," he agreed, "but kindly refrain from complaining to me when you get bored."

Demon in tow, he urged his bay up the rise and along the short hill which would lead him back to his waiting human guard, unaware of the seriousness with which Beelzebub went about making certain they were not followed.


	13. The Sufferer and the Witness

**Chapter 13**  
The Sufferer and the Witness

Recommended Listening: "Funeral" by Ilan Eshkeri (from Centurion)and  
"Passive" by A Perfect Circle

* * *

He had been asleep before they called to him, reclined beneath one of many mighty trees which lined the clear, sparkling pools and streams of Elysia. For that reason alone, he was called out of darkness.

It was the tinkling of some far away bell, soft and light at the back of his consciousness; and he wouldn't have heeded it – thinking it to be some figment of a dream – but for the persistence of its compulsive strength. The summons pulled him from the easy pleasure and daze of his hard-won afterlife as though reeling him on the end of a fishing line. From the darkness there came a heavy mist, thick enough to press upon his face and inhibit his sight; but he didn't need to see to know where he was.

He recognized the river of the Underworld, the channel from life into what followed, for better or for worse. The current bowed down to the force that drew him forward, doing no more than lapping at his shins instead of throwing its weight into him in order to drive him back to where he belonged. This could mean only one thing.

Death wished to speak to him.

The river faded, engulfed in the mist which grew warm enough to resemble an early spring morning by temperature. Transitioning though, even by the direct pull of Death's hand at the cord of his life force was mildly unpleasant, as though he were being compressed and tugged through an opening much too small for him to fit.

Sensation returned to him as a gentle tingle at distances that would become limbs. He recognized that he was standing, and that it was, indeed a spring morning just touched with a hint of frost to bid winter farewell. The ground was cold, but the weak, newborn sunlight was strong and warmed his cheeks. When he became corporeal enough to open his eyes, he realized that he had been called to the ruin of what had once been a structured building in a land he didn't recognize.

Obviously chosen for its isolation, the craggy slopes which rose to either side of the root-gnarled clearing sheltered the site where walls and towers had once stood. There was nothing left now but the bare bones of the building; nothing but ghosts.

He looked down at his feet and was not surprised to see that he was not made of flesh, but of the image of flesh cast in a soft whitish light which illuminated his countenance from the circular design drawn upon the dusty ground. Like a holograph, his form had a low glow to it. And while he could feel and hear and see, he knew that any hand extended to him would pass through his body like it would mist. His _real_ body was still asleep beneath that tree in Elysia.

The drawing was complex; composed of four rings set at varying distances from each other and lined with a multitude of intricate symbols which he knew would all combine to allow his reentry into the earthly plane. In the center directly beneath his feet was a final symbol, a delicate but powerful glyph that stood for all things living. As he studied it, he caught the faintest tint of violet too pale to truly belong to such a name. Magic which had called him and which had made him appear.

He had never attended a real, honest to God séance before, but he found he quite liked the warm lick of the magic at his illusionary skin.

His callers were assembled some yards before him, forming a double half-circle that was backed by a crumbling section of what had once been a pillared dome and a low stone-laden wall. Sunlight created little streamers of radiance. They fell through the spaces between the old, moldering columns and cast gleaming halos of light upon the immortal figures gathered there. For they were immortals; whether angelic or demonic he could only guess at an individual level. Only an immortal company would look even half so grand.

There were only two that he recognized. Gabriel the pure and white, he had seen only once, when the hair like spun silver had fallen in a sheet down his back instead of tied in a knot at the base of his neck. Death, however, pale and golden, with eyes shining like amethysts in his peerless face; Death he had known for a little longer.

The entourage behind the seraphim held no less glory, enveloped by the same kind of perfect, terrible beauty befitting their kind. Yet it was Azrael who spoke to him with a voice like honeyed music, and soon he saw none but Death and his piercing, jeweled gaze.

"What is your name?"

He took a breath as the magic swirling about him flared at the sound of the angel's voice. "Judas, called Iscariot."

"Who are you?"

While this would have seemed redundant, Judas understood the intent behind the question. The answer was one he had both pride and penitence for, but be stood straight despite his indecision and answered. "I am the disciple of Jesus, called falsely Christ."

The angel smiled, and it was enough to make even a long dead man feel clumsy and awkward. "Do you know where you are?"

"In life," he said slowly, "though I don't know exactly where. I know _you,_ though."

Azrael smiled, welcoming the unbidden answer for its worth in registering the stability of the jostled mind.

"You are Death."

There was a quiet symphony of rustling that came from all around. Judas looked up to see that every limb of every tree, from leafed to needled, to bare had been turned to a perch for a company of crows; sleek and black, and silent but for the unanimous hush of awareness that flickered among them as they watched him.

"I am," the angel agreed, then tilted his head to listen as Gabriel spoke to him in a hushed voice, gesturing to the crystal held in the white-haired androgynous male's palm.

As Azrael's eyes fell from the deceased soul's face, freeing him from the pressure of violet eyes, Judas allowed his gift of vision to wander to the entourage standing with the two seraphim. He had been in Elysia long enough to register the variations in rank between the two obviously noble-level lieutenants, the two scribes and the four orderlies who stood just behind them. The scribes carried each carried a thin rectangular piece of glass, used to access files and records far from where the real documents were stored and protected. The lieutenants – large, ebony-skinned and small with hair the color of an oceanic weed – stood silent and still, present for protection and consultation.

There was one other figure that fit no rank or station Judas understood. The man figure stood to one side of the consulting seraphim, still as the stones which studded the mossy earth, the sharpness to his face imprinted upon skin that seemed to shimmer with the texture of scales along its edges. Yet as he watched, the silver-haired figure caught his glance and shot him a toothy smile. No statue, he realized, but a demon with a heritage that offered him rank and a loyalty that allowed him access to a covert and hidden operation.

"Hello, fishy," the demon purred and Judas looked away; unnerved by the reference to the master he had served in life for the wrong reasons. It hadn't been the first time he had been verbally thrashed for having served as one of Jesus' disciples.

"Judas?"

The lilt of Death's musical voice snared his attention, his purpose reinstated as the angel tugged lightly on the threads of magic binding him temporarily to the earthly plain. He lifted his head. "Yes?"

While customarily Death maintained a mild, personable and pleasant demeanor while dealing with deceased humans (as Judas knew first-hand), the expression on the angel's face had captured a note of something which seemed unnaturally severe. The utter seriousness that had smoothed the smile from Azrael's face put a chill through Judas' illusionary flesh. The crows shared a second ripple of knowing energy which might have caused him to shiver had his spine been solid enough to allow it.

"My reason in disrupting your rest finds its cause in the why of a question."

Cryptic speech, but not unusual for a seraph. Judas waited patiently for the explanation to finish.

"We have been attempting to solve a mystery; one that features information extracted from the records of your role in history and concealed from the eyes and reach of our mages." Azrael nodded to one of the scribes, the one whose strangely cut hair had grown in a phenomenal shade of purple. The scribe approached, making several marks on the pane of obsidian-framed glass he carried, and held it out for Judas to read.

Clear as day, Judas saw the records of his time involved with the false Messiah as they had been written; pages upon pages through which the scribe scrolled slowly enough for him to skim but quickly enough to count the vast number of places, outlined by magic of various colors, where things had been removed, hidden, or changed.

"I am…" Judas began, hesitating to offer anything that might be considered unhelpful. "I'm not sure how I can be of help." Then he realized something. As he scanned the paragraphs of documentation, there were places that didn't seem to fit together the way they should, as though the words were a stone puzzle that had been broken and reassembled the wrong way. "It's been rearranged," he said, "that's why there are so many places where it looks like there are pieces missing."

Gabriel's snow white eyebrows rose, his effervescent blue eyes shifting to regard Azrael with a demure question. "Can this be?"

Azrael looked both relieved and annoyed, as any scholar would when the answer to a problem that had spilled so much time, sweat, and effort turned out to be so simple. "It certainly can," he decreed, "which was why I requested to speak to someone who bore witness to the events specifically."

"_That's_ a goddamn relief," the demon added, golden eyes glimmering as they met Gabriel's soft gaze with a grin. "We were all worried there could have been imprinted spells extracted from the vellum. Thank everything holy that's not—"

"I don't know about spells," Judas interjected, squinting down at the pages mirrored by the glass, "but something is missing." The crows, who had been chattering quietly among themselves, stilled into a silence so heavy that Judas was sure he could feel it settle upon his shoulders like a garment. He looked up, glancing first at them and the faint gleam of their faraway eyes, and then at the two seraphim staring uneasily at him. "There's nothing here," he pointed to the glass, "about my temporary guardianship of the Grail."

For an entire minute, nothing so much as took a breath. There was no movement, no sound, no depth to anything but the steady widening of Gabriel's eyes and the cool rush in the magic Azrael used to keep Judas bound to the mortal world.

"The Grail?" Gabriel murmured as Azrael rapped a quick, "double-check this" to the second scribe.

Immediately the scribe began accessing the massive store of records kept in both the Heavenly and Hellish archives, his fingers flying as he searched. Within seconds he was pulling up a file and turning his pane for Azrael to see. "He's right. Charged the week of the Last Supper, he had guardianship of the Grail from that time until a month after his death."

Azrael's eyes took in the documentation proving this, and yet they narrowed. "I wasn't aware we had a guardianship program for her. Explain, please, Sandalphon."

The head of Heaven's scribes pulled up another file and recited, "there isn't one. Any guardianship that takes place is only issued upon any need for her to wake from the sleep you put her in upon the time she was to die. From the time she wakes until the time her task is completed and she rests again is the only time a guardian is charged, upon which they are released." He flipped through the file. "As a conduit to the Almighty's precognitive visions, she mainly sleeps unless there is a need for her to serve as a prophet."

Recognition stirred behind Azrael's violet eyes. "The Last Supper was when she woke to tell Joshua that he was serving in a way that was not sanctified by the allowances Gabriel gave him."

Judas nodded, "she said we were bearing false witness to events that never should have taken place." He lowered his eyes, then, overtaken by a remnant of regret. "Of course, no one listened."

The demon's eyes were sharp as his tongue. "Except you, Iscariot."

"Beel—" Azrael's tone held the barest traces of warning.

"He's right," Judas defended, "it was why I decided to do as he said and turn him in, because it was compatible with…" He silenced himself, realizing that his reasoning was unnecessary.

The demon ignored him. Instead the golden-eyed male addressed Azrael in a way that was both casual and assertive at the same time, the mark of a close relationship. "Let's say daddy dearest _did_ remove something from these records. Say, a location. Why would he need the Grail's resting place?" He shrugged.

Gabriel reached across to gesture at something on Sandalphon's glass. "Eve serves as a prophet only when God decides her visions are important enough to share with humanity but only when the affairs regard humans alone. There is no reason why Lucifer would harbor so much as a _trace_ of want for her location."

Quirking an eyebrow, Beelzebub inquired, "how would we know for sure?"

"This is true," the snow-white angel conceded with an incline of his head. "Azrael?"

Azrael was still looking at the files displayed on Sandalphon's imager, his eyes focused on something not quite visible to anyone else's sight. When he spoke, it was with a softness that was laden deep with memory and with uncertainty. "I confess I don't know as much about this as I should—a shortcoming I shall remedy as soon as I'm able." He glanced upward toward the assembly of crows from which he was channeling energy to keep the séance portal open.

"What I _do_ know is that she ceased to be Eve as she was when Adam's death left her split in half. She is empty…a shell of a human, except—I assume—when she wakes."

"What relevance could she have to the start of a holy war?" Sandalphon asked, looking marginally worried. "He wouldn't use her as a gateway into the Almighty's visions—"

"No," Azrael let the theory die before it was truly given life. "Any attempt to do so would end him, and he knows that." Judas watched him pace, the angel's steps leaving no trace of imprint to mark where his booted feet had been. The movements were smooth, eerily so, but thus was the way of immortality when it was born instead of incubated such as a deceased soul's. "I have no answer."

Beelzebub snorted. "Maybe because it makes no logical sense," he said shrewdly, "I think it's a diversion. It would be just like him to distract you with some pointless puzzle while he crushes Michael and the infantry into the dirt."

The measure of attention Azrael granted this was marginal, but it was there. "A possibility," he commended, though he had the distinct appearance of a man who had hoped for an end to a mystery, not more complications to it. "But we won't be certain until I can do some more research. Cassiel—" The large, dark-skinned lieutenant stepped forward at the sound of his name. "Contact Ezekiel and start a comb. I want as much information on this as you can get by tomorrow."

"Yes, Sir," Cassiel agreed, and vanished into the morning mist.

Azrael turned his eyes back to Judas at last, and when he smiled it was faint but lined with gratitude. "You have our thanks, child. Back to your rest, with peace."

As the world began to fade around him, Judas felt the cares and concerns of being reintroduced to the politics of reality seep away through his skin. Though part of him hoped the angels would solve the puzzle and find victory in their war, he was rendered unable to give it much more than a passing final thought before it sank away. The afterlife was not about the darker things to existence.

Such things were for the soldiers of God to reckon with.

* * *

Sometimes there were moments when none of it seemed real; like nothing beyond what she could have invented with the aid of some Bailey's Irish Cream in her coffee and the push of one of her wilder dreams. There were times when she sat up in bed and wondered if she was really getting up to go to work in a library, or if she was really just a speck of an idea that didn't actually exist. There were entire days when she would move along under the impression that she was still living with her parents or in school. The brain, she would have said, was a strange little beastie.

She would float inside the illusion of weightlessness and gaze at the blurred edges to her furniture, puzzling over the reasons behind the world as it was, and promptly shake herself out of the daydreams. There had never been any worth in wondering about the meaning of life for her.

The oddity showed up now and again, for a brief wave and a chat, before stepping out again. Normally it didn't bother her. Yet when she caught herself questioning whether she had made up her ties to an angel, all the life-changing happenings that had occurred within the past few months, it began to scare her. There was one particular morning when she lurched from her bed in a panic that she had invented everything from the day she had met with Jessica about her prospective male dance partner up until that very instant. It had taken a cup of very strong coffee, several deep breaths, and a solid five minutes of sitting with the ember of lily-shaped crystal clutched in her hand to make her calm again.

He had called it a trinket, in his roundabout way, and yet its quiet, steadily glowing spot on her bureau had been a savior for a mind that bridled at the thought of imagining some of the most important events of her life. It had soothed her with its tiny pulse of violet warmth.

She feared she might somehow forget everything...but at the same time, it didn't seem likely. It was difficult to forget certain things when every time she looked down at herself and the more loosely fitting shirts she had taken to wearing to conceal the slight swell of her abdomen. The image would bring her a smile as it jolted her memory. Or at least most of it.

Change had never been the easiest thing for Lilith to process; and while her adjustment to Azrael's introduction of a whole new world had been relatively smooth, she had trouble reconciling the shift in her worth as an individual because of it. She didn't truly understand that her relationship with her angel was roughly the equivalent of marrying a human duke. Nor did she register that the implications toward her safety were just as serious. Despite all his warnings and precautions, somehow it hadn't quite clicked.

But that wouldn't last forever.

She never should have gone for the walk. While she had read somewhere that keeping active would help keep an in-utero baby healthy, her walks had grown increasingly boring with how often she had to repeat them. Map in hand and cell phone in pocket in case she had to call a cab to get her home, she had ventured out to explore what lay beyond the interstate. This wasn't to say she had never been on the other side before, but it would be something new, something to relieve the old, familiar places she had worn out.

She had started later than planned due to the laundry run that took a little longer than desired (and a shortage of available dryers), and it was broaching twilight by the time she got started. Deciding it would be a brief venture, she headed out, bundled in her coat to combat the early March cool. She was just about to turn around when she reached St. James Cathedral, and the three figures clustered, crouching on the steps to the big oaken doors, about something in the ground.

The skin at the back of her neck prickled, the fine hairs standing on unnerved end. There was something altogether _wrong_ about them, about the way they moved, something that made her wonder if they were people at all. Almost insect like, they picked at the focus of their attention, worrying at it like a child would an almost-healed scab.

One of them lifted its head, sniffing faintly, and turned to see her, which was when she got a clear view of what was lying dead at their feet. It was a housecat. A big tom, its insides picked clean until there was little but skin, fur, and bones left to mar the concrete.

The gagging at the back of her throat preceded the clarity of realization, as did the slide of her feet backward toward the way she had come. But as the strange, shiny skin of the creature, with its yellowish hue, caught the church light while it drew the attention of its fellows to her, she knew she was in the presence of demons. A pair of blank black eyes glimmered, oddly sharp, pincer-like claws – two for each hand – flexed toward her, as though testing the air around her for a smell more potent than the one it had sensed with its flat, shapeless nose.

"It's a mother," it said, though the words were harsh with the click of sharp teeth colored a grimy black. "Double the meat!"

The cat's carcass was shamelessly abandoned. Reaching with their pincer limbs, they ambled eagerly toward her, descending the stairs with an alarming speed that Lilith found impossible to look at without wanting to be sick. She may not have been able to name the demonic things that had decided to pursue her, but she understood the word _meat. _To them, she was food. As was her baby.

_Like hell!_

She threw herself backward and ran. Pressing a hand to her stomach – as though to further protect the underdeveloped infant resting there – she clenched her teeth and pushed her muscles as far as they would go. The sidewalk slapped at the soles of her shoes, the air that whipped past her face far sharper than it should have been. Yet she barely registered her unnatural speed. They were just as fast, perhaps even faster.

The breath tore at her, ripping at a stitch in her side like a blade through thread. The hopelessness battled her drive to escape, two sides of herself grappling for the words that would tell her what to do. She couldn't think through the stress, or the burst of energy that enabled her to keep her pace and maintain enough distance to keep her safe, for the moment.

She did know, however, that she couldn't keep going like this forever. At some point her body would give out and they would descend on her like wolves upon an especially stubborn quarry. Despair hit her like a brick wall when she realized that she had nowhere to run to. They would follower her onto any street, into any building, potentially threatening anyone or anything she happened to cross paths with. As she raced for the shadows which stretched beneath the interstate overpass, she screwed up her eyes and did something she hadn't done with serious earnest since she was a little girl.

She prayed.

_Please, God, _she begged, _whatever plans you have for me, surely they can't include being hunted and eaten?_

The ripple of movement down the street several yards away caught her by surprise. She bit her lip, quite nearly faltering in her mad dash down the empty road, thinking it was another of the creatures with lust for her flesh and organs. Until she saw the gleam of spelled silver marks against a swatch of pale blue darting steadily toward her.

Cerberus was a ghostly flicker of silver-flecked shadow, bounding back and forth between the lights, the numerals on his collar blazing with a light that she quickly recognized as angelic magic. His strong black paws ate up the ground, drove him forward with a speed to rival any great cat of the savannah. His eyes were what caught and held her, however. The blue of them seemed to leak from the captivity of his irises and smear the space around them, and aura that flared and flickered with the sensitive life worthy of flame.

He seemed to swell before her eyes, the rich fur of his ruff rising with assertive fury, his size very nearly doubling. It wasn't until he passed beneath a street light that she realized her eyes had been tricked. For the dog was actually changing shape. As if from the marrow outward, his figure warped and realigned until it was a more humanoid than canine. When he was near enough for her to grasp the rapid shrink of all nine tails and the morphed snarl shaping the growl on his breath, he launched himself into the air – right over her head.

She whirled, nearly tripping over her own feet, blinded as she was by the flash of silver runes stamped into a blue leather belt, to watch the man that had been a dog just moments before drive the first of the demon things to the ground.

His black-clad knee put a dent so deep in the thing's chest that it choked up a mouthful of greenish bile. It had just started to scream, flailing with intoxicating mix of fury and terror, when Cerberus drew the knife from his thigh and neatly severed the monster's throat.

The infuriated shrieks of its fellows clawed at the air, piercing Lilith's sensitive ears. She winced, covering them, but might as well have done nothing for all the good it did. Cerberus rose sleekly to his bare feet and with a single, fluid movement, severed their spindly spines. Two more bodies dropped to the cement. The nasty crunching of their armored yellow bodies made her cringe; echoing with the sounds of unholy screaming.

It had all ended so quickly that she had a bit of trouble adjusting to the fact that she was no longer in danger.

As Cerberus turned back to her, she met his quiet blue eyes and saw the invigorated flush of animal battle-lust shining from behind the shaggy veil of his ink black hair. It unnerved her to see the parallel between those eyes to any she had seen before, for while Cerberus' eyes were more dog than human, she recognized the clarity and focus of a person. She wondered then, for perhaps the third memorable time, exactly what _was_ the creature Azrael had charged with her protection.

Interestingly enough, the sight of the half naked, knife-bearing male advancing toward her did little more than give her a touch of embarrassment. Azrael was much more intimidating than this man – which was saying something. She just found it awkward to see the hound she had let sleep on the foot of her bed showing so much…skin.

With a steady hand he slid the gracefully curved hunting knife back into its cradling straps beneath his left hip. He moved slowly, gingerly, eyeing her with a purposeful air belonging to someone trying not to startle their company. She watched him, noted the way he tilted his head as though asking her a question, like he so often did as a dog, and knew that the simplicity of his desire to comfort and please was pure as that of a child's.

It wasn't as jarring to see his body slip back into canine form. She had to admit, she had seen stranger things. While she wasn't certain if he simply had no choice (a spell limiting his access to a human body didn't seem all that unusual, compared to some things) or if he had decided it would be better for their guard dog-ward relationship, she had no reservations to putting her hand out for him to lick as he trotted up to her and coiled about her legs in a genuinely reassuring manner.

With soft fur between her fingers, she glanced around, looking for the demonic bodies only to find crumbled piles of ash where their forms had fallen. She shuddered, quite thoroughly creeped out.

It had been an unwanted close encounter. If not for Azrael's tendency to lean toward over-protectiveness, she would have been dead and suffering her insides being eaten by famished insect-demons. She was by no means as competent as her guardians were, but if she had to cast a wager, she would have bet the encounter was a sign that her home realm was no longer as safe as it had once been. Not that there was anything she could do about it…

Or, was there?

As she looked at Cerberus, watching him watch her with a cautious blue eye, she asked, "you wouldn't happen to know how to get to the Hall, would you?"

Wuffing softly, Cerberus twisted until her hand found and gripped the soft cloth of his collar. Then he led her down the streets, winding back and forth until the alleys got uncomfortably narrow and the buildings became more and more dilapidated. She was not at all surprised to find herself being walked right up to the dingy door fronted by the glaring red neon. What surprised her was the way her guard strode severely onward down the stairs swathed in darkness, pausing only long enough for her to find the hand railing, until they reached the landing and the doorman.

The especially largely built man was no less of an intimidating figure than she remembered, towering above her modest height and dwarfing her with musculature that, to someone who had never appreciated the heavyweight champion look, seemed almost distended. His cleanly shaven head gleamed dully under a hot red stage light pointed down toward the landing. The arms crossing a massive chest unfolded with an irregular sort of grace for their size, and moved to unclip the chain from the wrought-iron queue barrier.

She was both surprised and confused by the motions made to let her pass. She remembered very clearly the little door-test the guard issued, and while she hadn't really expected to pass it, she had been planning to ask him to deliver a message to his master. After all, she had no worth or status, and even if she had…even Azrael, for his rank and power, had been issued the little exam. There was no logical reason for her to be exempt.

"Um…why are—?"

"I'd have to be completely daft not to follow specific orders from His Highness himself." The man's voice held no trace of such daftness, merely an easygoing lilt that betrayed a hint of amusement at her expense while he regarded her steadily with mild, dark eyes. "I never forget a face," he added with a nod, "and a marked sentinel isn't something I'm about to contest."

"Ah, I—"

"His Highness is performing at present," he informed her with a measure of eloquence that seemed odd for such a formidable man. "But I wouldn't advise going to the office until he's finished. It's better to be around lots of people until he's available."

The look on his face was enough to explain to her why, but she wasn't about to correct him by saying how sure she was that he guard dog could handle whatever the demon-hosted nightclub might throw at her. It would have been rude, for one.

Cerberus needed no further urging. With light steps, he surged forward passed the guard, pausing only long enough for Lilith to offer a hesitant word of thanks. She wasn't sure, after all, how much she liked being stored in a strange man's mental catalogue of innumerable faces. Not that her impromptu guide cared about that. The dog seemed entirely focused on navigating through the sit-down bar and miniature eatery room, towing her along via the hand still holding fast to his collar. He pulled hard, and once or twice she feared she might accidentally choke him, but he never appeared to notice.

Though the floor beneath her feet trembled with the pulse of a heavy bass rhythm and the air was colored with the ragged ripple of music, she barely heard the notes of the song. Her heart pounded with the tempo, each and every thud of the beat seeming to force her blood to flow at its pace. The cement surrounding them flashed with color, reds and yellows and ultraviolet streaks. Yet as they entered the wide open room that served as concert arena and mosh pit Lilith discovered that she really didn't want to venture any farther into the melee.

As any rock performance might, the show boasted an immeasurable number of bodies crammed into a space much too small to contain them. Neither the heat nor the smell of alcohol and smoke bothered her. It was simply the fact that she had never been in the Hall without a chaperone of a humanoid figure.

Peering around in the dark, she caught glimpses of things – otherworldly things – that made her flesh crawl. Women that tilted their heads to angles impossible for any living person, like owls that twisted their spines in ways that made her feel sick. Men with empty, pupil-less eyes and hair that hung like ragged pond weed from their scalps, their skin greenish and shiny. There were groups that danced so close that Lilith had to look away, embarrassed by the excessive bits of skin illuminated by the flash of lights, grateful she couldn't hear the sounds they must have made.

There was a woman dressed in a skimpy beaded top who bent herself backward until she was almost completely folded in half. When she righted, Lilith could see that her abdomen was little more than a round hole, open right where the navel should have been, and full of nothing but empty air. Her companion, a male demon with skin a blue-black shade, appeared to have been tattooed in white to match his hair. The designs drew a stylized skeletal system across his naked chest and back; his face was intricately detailed to appear like no more than a skull with hollow cheeks and sockets for eyes.

When she peered to one side, toward a corner shrouded by all but the red spotlight from the center of the ceiling, Lilith saw a human woman in the embrace of a man so grisly to look at that she could barely stomach to look at him for too long. The woman, so obviously under a glamour, sighed and curved into the kiss given by a pallid, slimy lipless mouth. When he reared like a cobra and sank his fangs into her throat, she gasped and struggled, clawing at him for freedom. He broke her wrist with a swift, visible crack, and continued draining her of the blood that ran down her neck to stain her blouse, clearly enjoying the pain of his meal.

Though she shuddered and looked away, reminded vividly of the fate she had escaped, Lilith had little doubts that Cerberus could and would do anything to protect her, but even a hell hound would have a bit of difficulty with so many enemies, which was a thought he seemed to mirror. When she looked down, he was eyeing the throng of revelers with some reservation, his ears folded back.

Shuffling slightly to the side to leave the doorway clear, she wedged herself up against the brick-studded wall, deciding she would wait until Beelzebub was free to go anywhere else. She doubted she would have too long to wait. He probably already knew she was in the building; it wouldn't surprise her.

Looking up at the stage, she watched with strained amusement as the demon prince crooned into the microphone, bending over its stand as though it had the figure and balance of a human body. Perhaps crooning, however, wasn't the proper word. He had hitched his voice to the rasp of a death metal singer's to the point where it broached a scream; a style she recognized, if not one she favored. She was interested to note that it had an aftertaste that reminder her of demon-speech, which she supposed was why it seemed to come so naturally to his vocal chords.

In his sleeveless shirt, which had been brutally slashed to show off the poisonous orange mesh beneath it, and tight-fitting latex pants, he was the epitome of the common perception of hellishness. And yet she smiled at the irony of it. Most of the demons she knew dressed quite stylishly in comparison, and with not near so much metal and leather to accent their clothes.

Her gaze wandered, tracing the edges of the room (what she could see amid the harsh club lighting). She liked to people-watch, and lower level demons were not terribly different from regular people at all. There had been a recent renovation, as the wall leading to the restrooms had been set with a high bar-like table which lined the entire space, dotted with tall stools upholstered with blood red velvet and dimly lit from overhead. Her smile returned, touched by the knowledge that the change had most likely been ordered for her sake; a gesture of apology no doubt. From demon royalty, she was sure Azrael would say; it was quite a symbolic gesture.

As she watched, one of the two men seated nearest her hiding spot glanced her way. She thought nothing of it, merely pretended to look away…until he performed a classic double-take and fleshed out his glance with a full on stare. Her grip tightened on Cerberus' collar. From the corner of her eye, she saw the strange man lean in to the second and excuse himself before draining his glass and starting her way.

Typical postures of a male brushing up the courage to approach an unfamiliar female. For what reasons hardly mattered.

He drew closer, sidestepping a woman in a slinky gold dress and stilettos and passing beneath a clear white light. Upon catching her first clear look at him, Lilith had to work hard not to shrink into a tiny ball; for as much as she had seen he was by far one of the most difficult sights to stomach.

He wasn't ugly, quite the contrary he had a rather handsome face for someone who was colorless. There was no tone to his skin. He wasn't even white like Azrael or Beelzebub, but a fine, faint gray that reminded her vaguely of a synthetic metal-plastic cross. His hair was black, but an empty black versus the bluish tint of true black, and slicked into a half-ponytail that flared at the back of his head because it was almost too short for the style. The clothes he had chosen only echoed the eerily drowned look of him, a plain white shirt, gray striped waistcoat, black slacks, black shoes.

The only point of color he possessed was in his eyes. They too were made from rings of gray; coal, steel, and silver, until the very outermost ring which was a fine, rich cobalt. The effect was daunting. And demonic, make no mistake.

She pressed her back into the wall, hoping he might by some miracle forget she was there, and nudged Cerberus in the rump to draw the dog's attention to the unwelcome stranger. But to her shock and distress, Cerberus no more than gave the demon a short, deliberate look before tossing his head and returning to watching the crowd.

"What kind of guard dog are you?" she hissed, agitated, her eyes pinned to the man's feet until he finally drew close enough for her to sense the chill from his body. Very slowly, she allowed herself to look up into his face and was surprised by the surprisingly warm smile she found there.

"Don't be too hard on him," he said, and the voice he used was gently husky and stitched with a lilt that was playfully musical with an accent that had certainly originated somewhere near Ireland. "He knows I mean you no injury."

She eyed him, from the laugh lines at the corners of his mouth to the errant friendliness she felt lying just beneath his skin. "Sure…but do you mean me _harm?_" she questioned, sensing that just because he promised not to cut her open didn't actually guarantee her safety.

His smile was slow, lined with a quiet amusement mixed with what might have been malice. "No," he admitted softly, "but bravo for being cautious. Not many mortal-born would think to look for loopholes in such a promise." Something about his voice carried a touch of admiration and respect, and when she shifted, uncomfortable with the closeness, he took a step back to prop himself against the wall to her left, just near enough to hear should he choose to speak again.

Lilith, while unsure what to make of the sudden intrusion, found that despite the oddness of him, he seemed reasonable unthreatening. Neither his presence nor his stance suggested anything outside of civil nicety. What was more, he wasn't even looking at her anymore; he had turned his strange, fae-like eyes back to the crowd to watch, much like Cerberus did on her other side.

"So…why chill with a human?" She asked, hitching her voice so that it would carry to his ears over the din. "Just to chat?"

He didn't so much as move, not even enough to glance her way. "Human you are not," he replied steadily, his eyes on the bone-tattooed demon who was sidling nearer with every passing beat of the music.

The low, throaty growl that trembled from the chest of the dog at her side drew Lilith's attention to the other demon and the black pits of eye sockets that were somehow trained on her. She crushed herself into the brick, beyond the capacity to even attempt looking menacing. Vaguely she wondered if perhaps Cerberus had been wrong and the stranger's attempt to get near her was actually a plan to do something awful, perhaps with this new demon as an accomplice.

But when the freakish creature drew close enough for her to make out the tiny, impossible whorls in his skin and Cerberus' warning had crescendoed into an all-out challenge, it was the man from the bar who moved to place himself in front of her.

"Back away," he warned.

The tattooed demon paused, considering.

"Do I have to skin you?"

"Hah," the laughter was gritty and acidic, raking against Lilith's ears as though the sound itself had been composed of a thousand tiny barbs that latched to the eardrum and ripped outward. She winced, fighting the urge to lift her hands and cover her ears. "You can't—"

"But _I _can." The hand that snapped from the red-filtered darkness to clutch the bone-tattooed demon by the throat gripped tightly enough to cut short the words in his throat.

As Lilith watched, Beelzebub tossed the reveler back toward the crowd with the enthusiasm of one swatting at a bug, his nose wrinkled just slightly as though the demon smelled vaguely of open sewer. She glanced toward the stage to see another singer had taken the prince's place at the mic, and wondered how she had managed not to notice he had stopped. It wasn't surprising enough to cause her worry.

The demon fled, diving back into the crowd with a proverbial tail between his legs, leaving Lilith to her unexpected protectors.

She curled her fingers in Cerberus' ruff as the soft fur began to smooth after being fluffed into a threatening illusion of larger size and watched the prince turn to the other, much more civilly appropriate demon. He had lengthened his hair, she noticed, and had styled it into a chaotic maze of spikes to glitter in the strobe lights.

"Arawn," Beelzebub greeted as the taller, silvery-skinned demon offered him a low bow. "Sucking up to Hatter some more?"

Arawn laughed, masking a hint of sheepishness behind a shrug. "No more than usual…why, do you think that would've worked?"

Lilith smiled, recognizing the nickname, and finding it amusing to imagine someone trying to impress Balael – who seemed like a hard female to court in such a way. "Somehow I don't think saving me from the jaws of violation and injury would matter much to her," she mentioned, looking grim.

"You might be surprised," the demon man corrected, his eyes twinkling as he feigned a heavy sigh. "But my valiant defense of your wellbeing is more likely to get me a slap as a accusation of—"

"Sucking up," Beelzebub finished, smirking.

Again, Arawn offered a bow, this time a shorter one, crafted to express gratitude instead of allegiance. "Exactly." He straightened and offered Lilith a small smile. "Nevertheless, I am glad to have you safe."

She returned the smile. "Thank you."

He nodded and took a step backward, intending to retreat. "I'll leave you to your business, then."

She watched him go, following the demon's aimless stroll toward the seat he'd left at the barstools. "What is he?" she asked as the strange calm he had smoothed into her began to seep gently from her skin.

"No one you need to trouble yourself about," Beelzebub said, and from the certain, if gentle, finality he managed to fit into the answer, she knew not to press for a better one.

Cerberus lifted his sleek black head, his clear blue eyes steady as they focused on Beelzebub. Stepping forward, the hound let out a single low bark, to which Beelzebub responded with a frown and a furrowed brow. She knew without asking that Cerberus could communicate with those people he chose.

Beckoning with a mesh-covered hand, Beelzebub led his guests back toward the office. "Well, well, getting ourselves into more trouble, are we?"

Lilith frowned, forgetting Arawn and his odd power to soothe, shooting a look that was both affronted and reproachful. "You say it like this is _my_ fault."

"Well…" She glared at his turned back when he half-shrugged, stepping around a shoe that had been somehow lost in the fray of loose morals and forgotten inhibitions. "Just kidding. It's not your fault you ran into a demonic hotspot, just bad luck."

"I have seriously rotten luck, then."

His leanly muscled shoulders rose and fell a second time and he skirted the edge of the crowd to lead her down the second trio of steps that led to the hallway in which his office was tucked. As he opened the door and motioned for her to enter, she noticed he cast his golden eyes to a guard she had never noticed before – one of his monochrome, uniformed body-soldiers – and made a sign as if to send it away. The door closed before she could see what the guard would do, muting the noise from the concert hall by a significant half.

Cerberus' mood seemed to calm just enough to soften the press of his warm weight to her calves. It seemed that he preferred having her somewhere closed off from a place so filled with potential threats, as did Beelzebub.

The demon crossed to his desk, flipping on the overhead light as he did so to add luminance to the area that was more substantial than the string of nothing less than white Christmas lights draped along the span of all four walls. Under the light, she noticed that his eyes were shadowed with a pale orange and encircled with black lines she knew were more than mere eyeliner. He shuffled around in first one drawer, then another, before extracting a small rectangular sheet of thin papyrus parchment and a pen.

"So, what kind of demons were these?"

"_I_ don't know," she retorted, feeling a spark of annoyance coil around her insides. "How would I know that?"

Beelzebub shook his head, "I didn't ask you." He turned his gaze to the hound at her side and answered whatever the dog had said to him with: "insectile-humanish?" A short nod, and he was scribbling across the paper's surface. "_Ichram,_ I'd bet money on it. Relatively harmless, but—"

"_Harmless?_" Lilith half-shrieked, "those things wanted to _eat_ me! I how can that be _harmless?_"

The demon prince raised an eyebrow, set down his pen, and stepped nearer to lift the back of one hand to her forehead. She pulled away, not wanting him to touch her, but he gripped her wrist with one hand to hold her still. "You're not—by any chance—hungry?" he asked her, and it was tentative, very not like him.

"No, I—" She touched a hand to her stomach, where she felt a pinch of something completely unrelated to the baby. Surprised that he'd known before she had, she looked up at him. "Yes, I—I really want a bacon sandwich…"

He smiled at her in a way that was both affectionate and lightly, gently sarcastic. "Ahh, hormones." He patted her head. "Have a seat. I'll get a sandwich made for you, and we'll get a message to Azrael about the demon incident. Methinks it's time to start your non-medieval lie-in."

Lilith sat; feeling cowed and running her fingers through Cerberus' ruff while he leaned against her knees. She listened as Beelzebub went to the door to call his guard, wondering if this meant she would get to see her guardian earlier than scheduled, and trying to ignore both her hunger and the mix of uncertainty, joy, fear, and worry plaguing her like a sickness.

"—on whole wheat bread, and something non-alcoholic with a chamomile boost. Then fetch me Anjay."

"Right away, Your Highness."

The notion of slightly uncomfortable warmth settled onto her, causing her to raise her hand and loosen the lengthy, green-fringed scarf wound tightly around her neck. She could hear the door close with a muted thud behind her, but was too focused on unzipping her coat and unbuttoning the collar of her thick sweater to make note of Beelzebub's silent steps as he crossed the floor to stand just to one side of her chair.

She saw his hand first, out of the edge of her sight, angling toward her to reach for something which dangled on a chain around her throat. Though she made a sound that was both unappreciative and affronted, she knew he wasn't likely to do anything untoward (and what a fancy phrase that was); in fact, all he did was cup the light golden key that rested against her sternum between his fingertips.

He could feel the shallow thread of life which seemed to pulse inside its metal skin. She saw the flicker of recognition that burst like a tiny spark inside the golden rings of his irises, and knew that recognition extended to more than the mere oddity of it.

He knew what it_ was._

"Did he give this to you?"

There was no need to ask for clarification, she knew who he meant. "Yes," she answered, the tendril of hope for an explanation nearly squeezing the breath from her chest.

But when he said no more than, "interesting," the hope loosened and fell away. He would say no more, and she understood that her silence would be beneficial while he wrote a note to send to Azrael via the red-tailed hawk brought in by the guard. A servant presented her with a plate of food and some chamomile tea and she ate quietly, Cerberus' throaty purr warming her legs.

While Beelzebub tied the message to Anjay's leg and sent the bird to be released, she fingered the key at her collar and wondered why it had caused her host such apparent disquiet. Would Azrael tell her if she asked? Perhaps, but from the way he had given it to her in the first place, she had to assume he wouldn't.

So many secrets; so many shadows to hide them. It was starting to become difficult to keep up with them all.

* * *

**Hello my readers**

**May I first relay my apologies for the time it's taken me to get this chapter written…I had some difficulty assembling the ideas I had for it and making them real, and the direction of the first scene didn't go at all like I thought it would, but such is the way of it. I think it's probably better this way anyway.**

**On another note; I'm resubmitting Volume I chapter by chapter as I re-edit it for my approaching attempt at publication. Take a look if you're interested.**

**Again, my apologies, and my love. Thank you for your patience and understanding. I'll try to get the next chapter up without near as much delay. Please leave a review for me, if you're feeling kind.**

**Until next time.**


	14. He Who Swallowed a Star

**Chapter 14**  
He Who Swallowed a Star

Recommended Listening: "City of Lovers" by David Arnold [from Casino Royale],  
"The Last Man" and "Stay With Me" by Clint Mansell [from The Fountain]

* * *

The days that followed her return to hell for her "lie-in" were all very much the same. Azrael would get up in the morning, order her a good breakfast, dress, and head out to what she could only surmise to be the warfront, leaving her to her own business for the better part of the day. She spent most of that time reading and napping. She was more tired out by the span of a few hours than had seemed reasonable at first, but once reassured that there was no real bad omen in that, she settled into the new schedule.

When Azrael came home, the first thing he did was find her to give her an affectionate kiss. Then he would situate himself in whatever the most comfortable position happened to be and touch his ear to her stomach. Regardless that at first there was little to be either heard or felt early on, he had made it a routine that she quickly became accustomed to.

She would spend those moments combing her fingers through his hair and listening to him as he sang quiet, gentle lullabies to her and the baby. She had never felt closer to him than she did during those precious seconds. But those moments could never last forever and all too soon he left her, retreating to his study and the solitude of his research. She was virtually alone for hours that stretched on what had felt like miles and left them each miserable without the contact of the other.

More quickly than she had expected, her body adjusted to suit the changes that came with pregnancy. By the time the April rolled around, it seemed that she had gone from a slight bulge to a beach ball overnight. The swollen state of her belly constantly increased by tiny increments, her back ached with the pressures of having to alter her walking, standing, and sleeping stances. Her feet hurt, her nerves were tender, and she had a harder time than ever keeping food down.

Being picky about food was something she had never been in her life and since her condition had started playing with her vomit reflex, she felt like a bother she didn't want to be.

Her guardian, however, had spared neither expense nor risk of enraging the kitchen staff by presenting her with massive varieties of foods in order to find something she could eat without being violently sick. For whatever reason, the winning combination had been pomegranate-infused anything, mushroom and tomato soup, and lightly grilled sandwiches with cheese, spinach, and red pepper. Meats of any kind made her nauseous, but once or twice she managed a small cut of very carefully cooked lamb or duck.

Yet for all his tender care and attention, when he could give it, none of it had made her especially cheerful. In fact, every moment that passed she felt more and more unhappy.

For starters, being confined even to such a lovely set of rooms for such long periods of time made her feel contained and claustrophobic, something that prompted Azrael to make the time to take her on walks whenever he could. It did help, but the repetitive scenery of the dark, cold halls of the hellish palaces grew to become mildly depressing.

Then there was the issue of her vanity. She didn't like to admit it, but she was vain enough that when it had become impossible to see the waistband of her clothes over the swell of her stomach, she had thrown herself on the bed and cried. With overly active hormones to guide her, she had wound herself with knots of both despair and certainty that Azrael couldn't possibly love her when she looked the way she did.

He had walked in on her sobbing into a pillow, her eyes red-rimmed and her cheeks streaked with the stains left by cooled and fresh tears alike. In choked cries had explained to him how bloated and disproportionate she felt, then promptly tried to shoo him from the room, ashamed by her own feelings.

To his credit, the angel retained the patience of a saint as he held her hand and explained how most men were chemically incapable of not being attracted to the woman carrying their child. She, of course, refuted this with as much vehemence as she had once slammed him with when talking of sexual relations. While he admitted that she was right and not every male was as sensible as he, he also added that if he could without hurting her or the baby he would have made sure she understood how much he still loved her in the way she meant. The kisses that followed had only helped his cause.

To _her_ credit, she hadn't had another episode like that since he'd made his devotion clear.

That had been three weeks ago.

It was late May then, nearing her seventh month of pregnancy, and she was having difficulty sleeping due to a persistent amount of activity coming from the growing infant. Enough to where Azrael and Pandora had resorted to concocting a mild herbal sedative to induce rest. It was hardly the first night she'd had trouble but it was one of the worst. Not even the gentle drugs were having an effect, leaving her to fade into a half-slumbering stupor only to be woken by the soft lurch of movement in her stomach.

She rolled onto her side for the third time that hour and winced as the protest of a small, swift rap of pressure lodged in the organs somewhere below the ribs at her left side. With a groan she sat up and shoved back the few layers of cover she hadn't already tossed to the foot of the bed due to extensive warmth. Barefoot, she crossed the floor to the open bedroom door and through the hall to the library.

The irrefutable welcome of the room was soothing, as was the soft, warm light given off by not the unlit hearth, but the pair of non-flicker oil lamps situated on desk and chair-side table. The desk was occupied, just as she knew it would be. Though she saw only his back at first glance, she understood he was well aware of her presence despite no movement to turn and look her way.

Azrael's hand was busy with a quill, making shorthand notes on a blank piece of vellum as he combed through the old and fragile looking scrolls he had weighted with chunks of glimmering hematite at the corners. She didn't know what the notes were for, nor to what they pertained as she couldn't read them. All she really knew was their contents had been eating up the time he didn't spend in the location serving as home to civilized warfare – wherever that was.

At first she had found his near-obsessive study just the tiniest bit annoying. There she was, having just been attacked by insect demons that had wanted to eat her (literally) and her unborn baby, and all he'd done was go very quiet and bury himself in these studies. That period had been, thankfully, short-lived. After all, she knew very well that he only did what he thought was best.

That night, as with so many others, he looked up from his notes to see her standing there in her nightclothes, her hair mussed and her cheeks pale with lack of sleep, and put down his quill.

"Is it kicking again?"

She nodded, looking too weary to be upset. Beckoning her forward, he indicated she should take the chair he vacated, and with a wince she sat carefully to avoid hurting her already sore back, resting one hand on the crest of her swollen stomach.

Kneeling before her, Azrael touched his palm to the curve and felt the same flutter of movement that had only weeks ago made her eyes widen and her arms lose grip upon a hefty stack of books. That wondrous recognition of something miraculous had quickly turned into a dreaded occurrence once the baby had gained enough strength and substance to shove its limbs into her ribs. It was polite for Azrael, barely jerking enough to make an imprint against her flesh. But he felt it, just as he could feel the layer of bruising that lined her insides.

In addition to the magic he used to dull the leftover pain and fortify her resistance against further little attacks, he sent another dose of binding spells to wrap around the tiny form inside her body. While he felt no force of Manath from the child to threaten her, there was no way to know whether any would come later. He had been adding small doses of fortifying magic with every opportunity he was given; feeling it was far better to be certain in his preventative measures than to come home to find his lover bloodied and dying on the floor.

The image made his heart clench.

He scoured out the strain that made her joints and back muscles ache, watching her sigh and show her relief with a small smile. She touched his cheek to let him know she was grateful.

"I don't like calling it…an _it,_" she informed him, and not for the first time. "Why can't you look and find a gender so we can at least use _he_ or _she?_"

When she had first requested that he examine their child for a gender, she had done so without even asking if he could. He had been both proud and wary of how much power she seemed to unwittingly grant him; but let the matter lay without exploring the reality that he had dug his own grave when it came to exposing her to magic. "Because," he repeated his answer, his smile placating and affectionate, "that would spoil the surprise."

"Of course," she agreed sarcastically, but she decided not to bother with pestering him about it any further. It hadn't changed his mind before, why should it all of a sudden?

His hand was a gentle weight at her shoulder, a fleeting touch that was removed when he stood and began to tidy up the sprawling mass of books, scrolls, and notes. The fragile old scroll he had weighted was carefully rolled and inserted into the opening of a thin tube of wood magicked against breaking and misplacement that held a label and date etched into its side. The books he closed, piled, and pushed to the edges of the desk where they could easily be reached again.

She hadn't been able to inquire as to the contents of his research yet. Whenever the curiosity struck her, she shied away from interrupting him in case it was too important to risk breaking his mental and written catalogue. But that wasn't the only reason she refrained from voicing her questions. If the extensive amount of note-taking had anything to do with the war – and there was no feasible way it didn't – then there was little reason for her to expect answers he probably couldn't give her.

_More_ secrets.

She eyed the stack of books and scrolls, fingering the key which dangled at her breastbone. Another thing she had meant to ask about, but thus far hadn't been able to muster the nerve to do so.

He noticed her uneasy stare and offered a wan, apologetic shrug. "I would tell you about what I read," he began, "but I cannot."

Her eyes lifted to his face, unsurprised by the brief explanation but no happier with it than she was with her achy back. "Are these words really that dangerous?" she asked, her skepticism adding a low pitch to the tone of her question.

"All words have the potential to hold danger," he said simply. "All words have power, whether we wittingly give it to them or they are simply born that way. These only have danger for you if they reside inside your mind."

The look she gave him was shrewd. "Does this secrecy have anything to do with the demons that tried to eat me?"

Resigning himself graciously to the start of what promised to be a lengthy conversation, he leaned against the edge of the desk, seating himself on a corner, bracing one foot against the leg of the chair and angling to face her.

"Partly," he admitted, "the incident did put a new perspective on how things have shifted on the Earthly plain. Demonic activity has increased tenfold over the past several months, which, while problematic, is only a minor concern. You have always been on the radar for such creatures being human and young and—forgive me—attractive in several baser ways. Then there's your knack for drawing trouble."

Tapping the pads of two fingertips against the center of the pile of notes, he explained, "this information I have slaved over for the past month and a half is risk to you because it is of a desirable nature. Espionage is not absent in immortal warfare. Neither is treachery."

"You're afraid that if I know it might make me an easy target to extract information." It wasn't a question. She was smart enough to follow his implications.

He ran a finger along a line of writing, tracing the indentations made by the elegant, looping script drawn with pen and ink. The language was one she couldn't read, but she understood that the faint glimmer to the dried ink was a spell warding against those who were not welcome to decode it. "I'm afraid that if you know what's in _these _notes, there will be those who expect you to know things that you don't."

There was no need to pretend that immortals were too civilized for dirty, messy things like torture; she knew better. There might have been a good number of demons who harbored no ill will toward her guardian, and so toward her, but the majority were not so fairly inclined. Most of the demonic world, she knew, would have no problem trussing her up with her own insides if they thought she had angelic secrets to spill.

Sure, she would have loved to know. His stories were like the best fairytales that had ever existed. But the intrigue wasn't worth the risk of having her fingernails pulled out or her skin sliced and peeled back, among whatever variations on those themes the demon race had trademarked.

"I'm ok with ignorance," she reassured him, curling her fingers into the cloth over his knee. "So long as I'm not being lied to, I'm good."

His expression darkened. "I would never lie to you," he insisted, defensive despite the lack of an accusation.

He reached for her hand and found it open and waiting, his palm cool against her overly warm one and his fingers gentle when they curved to clasp the backs of hers. "I know that." She smiled at him, putting into it all the devotion and loving she could translate into a simple expression. Perhaps not so surprisingly, it was an easy thing to accomplish.

The baby decided it was an opportune time to bestow her with a good kick to the base of her abdomen, causing her to startle slightly from the moment of repose. Carrying Azrael's hand, she pressed his palm to the place where the tiny growing foot was lodging in her flesh. His entire presence softened with the loving glow of tender fondness.

"I do wish I had something to do with myself," she lamented, tracing the arc of his thumb. "I hate not feeling productive."

The angel examined her tone and expression with an empathetic version of chagrin. "I am sorry to keep you cooped up," he informed her, his regret staining the lilt of his voice, "but until delivery I don't know if it would be safe for you to do anything more strenuous than the occasional walk."

She tried not to look too disappointed. She knew very well the uncertainty of their unusual pregnancy had to be monitored with care. It was just so _boring _to be sitting around doing nothing all the time_._

"But," he added, "once you and the baby are safe, I see no reason for you not to be given some manner of task to occupy yourself." He thought for a moment, taking stock of what she might be able to do without being in the line of sight for trouble. "You could work with the scribes; they always need people to catalogue and reorganize."

Well, she could definitely do that; she had plenty of experience.

"Or you could help Pandora," he suggested, "she has been on the lookout for an assistant for a number of years now."

Her interest was instantly piqued. She had catalogued and organized information since leaving high school and would probably continue to do so whenever she was back in the mortal world. But there was something about the idea of learning medicine she found intriguing almost to the point to mild urgency. She couldn't imagine why she felt such a draw to it. But if she gained enough knowledge, perhaps she might end up being helpful to her guardian. That and the knowledge that she would get along well with Pandora made the decision for her.

"I think I'd like to try that," she said with a nod. "Something different. And useful."

He chuckled warmly and softly. "The cataloguers are no less useful or important, but I think Pandora will find your choice most pleasing."

She looked up at him, gifting him with the sweet, hopeful depth of her green eyes. "Do you find it pleasing?" she inquired, her words light enough to portray some uncertainty. She wouldn't go through with the decision if he thought she shouldn't.

"Yes," he leaned over to touch his lips to her cheek, the cool flesh warming quickly when introduced to the flush of her skin. "I believe it to be a wise decision. Variety is good for a rich life, and there's no such thing as too many good medics. We'll inform Pandora when we go in for your next examination."

She grimaced at the thought of yet another check-up among what had been a maddening plethora of tests, exams, and proddings via Pandora's instruments and fingers. Since returning to Hell, it seemed her guardian and midwife had conspired to subject her to as many hours of health and wellness supervision as they could possibly cram into her term. And while she couldn't really blame them for being careful with her (considering the monumental _first_ she was carrying) the attention was wearing on her.

"Another check-up," she sighed, "I think you worry too much. Wasn't it you who said having a baby is the most natural thing in the world?"

His acknowledgement came in the form of a quiet incline of his head. "It was, but only because that's true for normal women giving birth to normal _human_ children."

She frowned, despite the part of her brain's calm thought that she was reacting to overactive hormones than rationality. "I'm not normal?"

Azrael gave her a look that was both gentle and understanding, knowing full well that her sensitivity to what hadn't been intended as an insult was the fault of chemicals and defensive nerves. He stroked her hair with the palm of one hand and said, "wonderfully not." When her frown threatened to deepen, he smiled and touched the corner of her mouth. "A normal woman would never have accepted me for what I am."

True as it was, the ploy worked. Her expression softened, charmingly bashful and flattered all at once when she argued cautiously, "I don't know…"

"I do."

She swiped lightly at his shoulder, her smile unhindered by the pleasure found in the certainty in his voice, founded by his faith in her. When she yawned a moment later, she was thrilled by the hint of weariness until the baby decided to stake a claim against it by kicking her soundly in the liver. Her breath was just harsh enough to betray the sharpness of the jolt to wakefulness again, and Azrael noted the disappointment in his ward's eyes with mixed chagrin and resolve.

Abruptly he stood, shrugging the dressing robe from his shoulders and tucking it about her shoulders to add to the single layer of her camisole and flannel pants. "Come," he said, "perhaps a walk with help you tire enough to sleep."

There was no reason to argue with him. For one he could be right, and for another she relished the chance to get up and move, especially if it would encourage her body to tire itself out.

Getting up was always more difficult than sitting down, the cumbersome shape of a human mother's swollen body turning even such a simple, everyday movement into the most difficult of tasks. She scooted to the edge of the chair and braced her hands against the padded arms for leverage to haul herself from the seat. With a soft exhale, she blew a strand of hair from her face and headed for the door.

Azrael's eyes softened as they watched her cross the library with a posture that had gradually altered to suit the weight of the baby. Her slippered feet still managed to pad as softly as they had before the swell of her belly had become so pronounced, but despite how smoothly she had adjusted her movements, he knew it wasn't easy for her being so encumbered.

It had not been an easy pregnancy thus far, even discounting all the uncertainties about it. He had seen and interacted with enough childbearing mothers to know Lilith's had taken a sharp turn toward difficulty since he had transported her back to Hell. She was always tired, always sore, and locked away in a tower that wasn't nearly as proverbial as he had once imagined.

Their walks were the key to maintaining her happiness. It was time they could spend together that wasn't taken up by reading or sleeping. It was time she could spend with him that was distanced from the near-neglect his study had come to represent. Yet he suffered her misery as well as his own. He felt a constant guilt about her confinement, guilt that pressed upon his shoulders like the weight of an entire world, but could do nothing to change it until she delivered. It wasn't pleasant for either of them, but they had managed to endure.

Considering her restlessness, she had been exceedingly patient with him and with herself. He was proud of her, as he so often found himself to be. They could no longer dance or play, not until her term ended, but the walks solidified the bond that was strained by the demand of his duties and by war.

Taking her proffered arm, he joined her in the torch-lit hallway. Then he started off in the direction that would lead them to the upper levels of the dwelling palace, the ones that connected the upper-middle class citizens to the formal dining and meeting halls.

He had taken her there several times since they had passed by on their way to Beelzebub's secretive war-assembly dinner. There were several reasons for this, first among which was the relative safety and emptiness of the great pristine archways and monumental panes of glass. Secondly, the walk to the hall was lengthy enough to offer her some mild exercise but not so lengthy as to prove too taxing for her to complete. But he had also come to realize that Lilith favored the open space there, as well as the natural light that came in through the windows, even though the view was dismal at best.

She liked to perch on one of the window ledges and talk with him, her back to the light and her face turned up to fill her eyes with the vaulted ceiling and detailed, cathedral-reminiscent architecture. She enjoyed the smooth shift from the simple structures of the dwelling area to the purposeful elegance of the utility areas, then to the extravagance of the formal halls.

When they climbed the last flight of shallow steps, she let out a quiet sigh upon seeing the cool light from outside.

It was difficult to tell night from day in Hell, as the sky was burnt and expressionless as a soulless body. There were no stars, but the lightning that fractured the atmosphere every few moments added a flare even to the blacker night's flat, moonless luminance.

She went to a window, avoiding looking down at the world outside it, and touched her hand to the cool surface, her smile unloosening something that had wound tight inside his heart. Encouraged, he followed. Leaning against the pillar closest to her, he watched the rhythm of fire and electricity as it stabbed the skies outside. To the east lay Tartarus, the land of punishment and pain; a faint redness that he deliberately turned his eyes away from in favor of the treacherous black mountains to the north.

"I wish you had a window," she lamented, her eyes closed as she sat and laid her cheek against the glass.

He made a mental note to inquire as to the possibility of adding one to his domain. "I'm sorry—"

She shrugged off the string of apologies she could tell he was preparing to make; for keeping her tucked away in a dark prison, in loneliness and in discomfort. There was no need for any of it. She understood the necessity and that was enough for her. "Tell me about Heaven?" she asked instead, turning to him with a hopeful air that wrapped about him like a warm ribbon of adoration.

"What do you want to know?"

She pondered for a moment, filtering her questions into a manageable order. "Well, Hell isn't just fire and brimstone, so Heaven's can't be the typical a city in the clouds, right?"

"Well, not in the way you mean," he answered, and she eyed him with a measure of incredulity. "Heaven is its own land, just like Hell; but instead of darkness and rock, it's color and fertile land. Its proximity to Eden and Elysia connects it to forests and meadows that are as real and beautiful as the earthy ones, yet these were the models for earth, which makes them so much more alive."

She watched the contentment and the yearning melt into his features as though settled there by a warm rain. The love he had for the place he described ran deep and strong, as was only natural for someone to feel about their truest of homelands.

She knew how he wished he could be there, spend more time there; she would have been a fool not to see it. But he loved her more than he loved a place, even one so tightly locked in his heart, and since he couldn't bring here there he remained in the realms where she could walk. It was sweet of him, loyal of him, but his lack of blame didn't dissuade her guilt completely.

"The buildings are very open and airy, constructed like a cross between a citadel and a temple. Immortal kind has a natural fondness for nesting in higher locations, so most of the architecture is situated on raised ground and surrounded by the sky, with every room open to it—so close to the nether that you can reach out and touch it." He smiled, looking back on fond memories.

"Nether?" She inquired, gently reminding him to define the strange new term for his audience.

"It is our word for what you would call the sky…" he began, "except the translation isn't exact. Your sky has an end before it becomes the illusion of space, where the nether is infinite."

Lilith could feel the tingle of excitement and intrigue that came in the hands of new discovery. She loved the moments when he reworked something she thought of as cut-and-dry and made it magical. Knowing he praised and admired her curiosity helped her avoid feeling childish or ignorant. "Space isn't real?"

"It is in its way," he corrected with a shrug. "The things inside it and the apparent endlessness aren't, but the space itself is very much so. The forces it contains are powerful and unchangeable, dangerous to humans as they well know, but able to be crossed and interacted with to a marginal degree. It is the Darkness that Births All Things; the connective fabric that holds all dimensions and realms together and houses the barrier spells between Hell and earth."

He paused with a small, borderline roguish smile. "But you asked of Heaven, not of what contains it."

Her answering smile was agreement and a reminder to herself that there was no way she could learn everything there was to know about the inner workings of the real, honest-to-goodness, God-made universe. He could talk until her ears bled and her brain could no longer process the words and still she wouldn't have heard the half of it. Instead of allowing herself to be discouraged by that, she encouraged the librarian inside her to revel in the thrilling notion that she would probably be learning for the rest of her hopefully lengthy life.

It was a pretty thought.

As he went on to describe the graceful pearl and silver spires of the angels' home, she closed her eyes to better hear the musical flow of his voice and better see the images it created. Picturing the beauty of Seattle's most lush, fertile gardens, she amplified it as much as she could. Fueled by details only pictured in her most vivid dreams, she imagined a world where the buildings were built around the land, to compliment and work with it rather than plowing through it.

She saw a land that was rich with the purest specimens of nature, the first trees and stones and soil which would serve as the full-scale models for cruder, younger copies. She watched the trickle of a frothy stream as it curved along the slope which led from forest to the city whose steeples and roofs stretched up to clouds that were whiter and softer than any that would live in an earthly sky.

To have borne and sheltered creatures such as the one beside her – and to deserve the honor of being called their homeland – Heaven would have to be lovelier than the images her fruitful imagination could paint. The span of her human ideas and conception was short, brief, and easily exhausted. Yet as the flicker of evening lights that shone against a backdrop of wisteria nightfall made vines of the veins in her eyelids, she could more easily understand the wistful turn his voice took as he spoke.

She felt him reach for her hand, the cool texture of his skin pulling a thread of warmth from her wrist as he touched her and she opened her eyes, dispelling the lingering shadows of a canvas draped with Heavenly twilight.

"It is a beautiful world," he admitted, his thumb a stroke of softness against her knuckles. "It saddens me to know you will never see it."

She could see the truth to the sentiment in the gray that seeped into his eyes, circling the center of his pupils and winding outward. The guilt was something she could taste on the air around them, heavy and bitter with the taint of sorrow echoed in eyes that stared out the windows at the hellish terrain. There was cold, empty melancholy in him, hating that she was stuck there in such a dark, cruel place.

It was true; she would probably never lay eyes on his birthplace and home. But it wasn't as though she hadn't made her choice without warning; he had been very clear that to become a hybrid was to accept a life-long sentence banished from Heaven.

Lightly she squeezed the long, book-roughened fingers that held her hand. "But I have seen it," she told him quietly, smiling when he lifted his head to give her a look of pale puzzlement. "Every time you look at me, I see it." Something in his eyes softened, and whatever her deciding reasons had been she knew that the cost of them was well worth the love she saw in him just then.

He said nothing in reply, merely carried her hand to his mouth in order to lay the softest brush of a kiss to her fingertips. When his gaze shifted back to the land outside the windowpane, it was absent of the hardened chill of anguish and self-doubt.

Tracing the path his eyes had made Lilith turned to watch the charred thing that served Hell as a sky roil and churn with its perpetual evening storm. Lightning streaked the air without reason or visible pattern, the scars of light and energy lit with a sheen of blue so pale that it was no more than a faded remnant of the bolts as they dissipated, crackling, into the atmosphere. But as she observed, she caught the faintest glint of something gold off in the distance.

Like the gutter of a faraway candle, the golden spark flashed no more than three times before winking out. She couldn't tell if Azrael had seen it, for he remained impassive and expressionless but for the leftover warmth of his smiles, but his having noticed was not at the forefront of her mind. Whatever the gold light had been, its identity mattered only insofar as it reminded her of something she had been avoiding.

Her free hand rose to tentatively rest against the locking teeth of the key dangling at her throat. "Azrael," she began quietly, encouraged when he angled his head toward her. She tapped lightly against her collarbone where the key was framed by the black silk of the robe he had leant her. "What exactly is this?"

While she was prepared to defend her question by verbally recollecting the odd way he had presented it to her and perhaps the strange look Beelzebub had given her when he had noticed it, she never got a chance to do so. He didn't look angry or annoyed, but had he ever when faced with her questions? He did little more than grant the item in question a meditative glance before looking back out the window.

"A long story," he cautioned, not for her safety, she realized by his tone, but because the subject matter was apparently both heavy and unpleasant. He sounded like a man with a rough, ragged past trying to spare her from the dredged up tales of a tempestuous youth, and she felt her affection for him swell like a large bubble in her chest.

She touched his cheek, asking him to turn those lovely violet eyes back to her. "We have time," she said, hoping that she still had enough power to sway his decisions to her favor. "And it's starting to freak me out—"

His eyes widened the tiniest bit. "Whatever for?"

"It…_thrums._"

For a moment he was silent, studying the key at her throat with a mixture of interest and quizzical surprise. "Ah," he murmured with an absentminded hush that made her wonder whether he really expected her to hear. "Sometimes I forget how compatible to me you really are."

When she merely stared at him, expectant and curious, he added apologetically, "What you feel is my heartbeat."

"In this?" She was incredulous. An echo of a real creature's heart in an inanimate, everyday object was just plain strange. "How does—how?"

His face held traces of both sadness and pensive thought. "The magic involved is deep and archaic, more so than I have the ability to explain." Lifting his hands, he touched the tips of two fingers to each of her temples, rubbing until she felt the soft warmth of his magic blossom there. "But I can show you, if you wish."

Though not quite sure what she was agreeing to, Lilith gave her consent without suffering a single drop of hesitation.

Darkness engulfed her, as impenetrable as pitch and wide as a starless night. It coiled inside her, launching her into vertigo; swirling through the very fibers that gave her substance, thicker than cream and blotting out all but the melt of the magic at her temples. It could have lasted a mere second or spanned an entire week and she wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. Her senses of time and equilibrium warped inside the stretch of dark space as though both were stretched by the twist of magical threads throughout their surroundings.

Without the touch of magic to her face, she wouldn't have been able to keep as calm as she did. But with the knowledge that he was beside her, she managed to keep breathing and wait while the molecules of matter realigned and a spot of weak, grayish light began to form and grow in the distance.

By the time it had expanded to fill in the horizon she could feel a solid surface unrolling beneath her feet, onto which she tentatively stepped, away from the crushing black. Azrael's hand lay in wait for her support, assisting her in the half-symbolic climb from travel to what was most likely a memory held inside the angel's endless mind. She looked up at him, watching the peculiar blankness turn his face into marble, the sky encrusted with gems mirrored in his eyes.

They were standing in a field, a wide open stretch of land edged by forest of a dense, wild nature. The meadow was split by a stream that made a trickle of music against the soothing quiet which gripped the land – land which had the bearing and awareness of something alive in more ways than the earthly perception of natural survival and replenishment. Shadows of early nighttime held a hushed sway over the meadow, a gathering dusk streaked with the faintest pricks of light in the darkening sky, soaring toward the earth.

She remembered this place; its tall grass and tree-lined vastness. She remembered the strange heaviness of the air, the vivid palate of colors, the way the energy rose from the ground, regarding her as though a stranger might; wondering whether to greet her. The recognition was slow, sluggish to creep back into her mind, a half-remembered dream.

The first time _had_ been a dream. She just hadn't realized the significance of it then.

Her eyes rose to the irregular sprinkling of lights as they plummeted from their places, suffering – for the second time – the awful realization that many of the stars were falling, losing their grip on the sky. Their light-wreathed, humanoid bodies spiraled and reached, clawing for purchase on the fabric of the night.

Yet they flickered in vain, tumbling to the ground where they lay bent and broken before simply going out. They left nothing but small patches of scorched earth. The grass and flowers quickly regenerated as though the painful fury left by a dying star had never been.

Sadness was overwhelming, bubbling at her insides like an acid. She mourned the strange, beautiful creatures and winced as the sound of their keening cries fell upon her ears, shrinking sideways against the angel who let her hand slip from his grasp. Surprised, she turned to peer at him, swiping the hair back from her face as she did so, and tipping her face up to her guardian.

He stared as though transfixed, imprisoned by the sigh of the jewels wreathed in fire and steadily falling. The complexity of his expression was unsettling; a raw, raging mixture of haunted memory, pain, fear, loathing and immense sorrow, and for a long moment he simply stood, as stone, rooted to the unreal ground. No amount of pressure put to his flesh nor volume to her voice would call him from whatever manner of trance it was. That reason alone kept her from shaking him vigorously by the shoulder.

When his eyes dropped to fix at a point somewhere far nearer than the stars, she followed the line of his unblinking, unwavering gaze. What she saw there was the illuminated profile of a boy, small enough to be called thus but not small enough to be a child.

Yet another half-remembered dream.

For some reason the dream-made vision had been inconclusive while this memory allowed her clear comprehension that the boy was the very same angel who stood beside her. Rather, he _had_ been Azrael, a long time ago. Long before her kind had taken breath.

She could recall, vaguely, the speech he had given her the day he'd reveled himself as an angel. He hadn't lingered on the subject, but had briefly implied that he hadn't always been the Angel of Death; that he had, in fact, once been without such a distinct, black-and-white purpose. This was before that point in history, when Azrael had still been little more than an adolescent with no task other than to serve as what he had dubbed a _fallback option for failure._

The memory version of Azrael had his white-blond head raised to peer up at the stars as they dropped, burning up in their own luminous flame. His hair was shorter than Lilith had ever seen it, yet it somehow managed to frame the sweet, gentle face that would gradually firm and embrace his sharp cheekbones. The short cut heightened the distress imprinted on the not-quite-child that would become her guardian.

The real angel watched the child in turn, transfixed by the image of his far younger self. Nothing about his face or posture had changed, but Lilith thought she could see the tiniest flash of what might have been regret.

As Lilith's head turned toward a sudden flash of movement nearer than the rest, she saw the younger Azrael's foot slide infinitesimally as though he wanted to back away from the blazing piece of light that – a split second later – struck the earth before him.

Another star had fallen, a tragic sight, glorious in her aura of soft blue flame and her gauzy white gown. She crumpled in a broken heap at the young angel's feet, shivering upon the grass, singeing the wilted ground beneath her fragile body; yet she did not die upon impact as the others did. Instead, as the young Azrael held out both slim white hands to help her, she looked up into his horrified face and gave him a sad, kindly smile – the kind of smile that was resigned, despite a trembling lip.

Lilith glanced toward the real Azrael, still as stone beside her, just in time to hear him say; "Cjarsae. The first and only queen they ever had."

Her eyes drifted back to the scene of memory playing out before them. The star woman with her pale, blue-tinged skin and azure-black curtain of flowing hair had reached up to take the young angel's face in her hands. No words passed between them, none that Lilith could hear. But Azrael's hand found a light perch at her shoulder, giving her a dose of magic enough to hear the silent, one-way exchange.

"_I am dying…as will you, without me."_

What Lilith saw next was something she knew could never be forgotten. It was so startling and so inescapably unreal to her eyes and her understanding of matter that she was almost incapable of processing it.

The star had dimmed, fading like a pre-developed film image in sunlight until her color was no more than a flickering gray. Suddenly, she imploded with light. The small explosion was soundless, but Lilith could feel the power of it wash against her skin, prickling with energy, making the tiny hairs at her arms and nape stand on end. She had become no more than a blinding, glowing lump of electricity that pulsed and flared in the growing dark, piercing Lilith's eyes and burning at her sensitive nose with the shock of pure, potent magic.

And then she sank into the child-like angel's body, taken in like breath, as though he had swallowed her with his flesh.

She didn't feel the pain this time, but she could remember it vividly; a sharp, throbbing rip resonating deep throughout her chest. _His_ hurt, she realized, not for her to share outside a dream world. The young angel's face was screwed up with the echoes of just such a sensation, jaw clenched and eyes tightly closed, fingers digging into the flesh below his collar as though to dig out whatever caused the agony

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Azrael's hand rise to rest against the very same place. Not with real pain, but with an acknowledgement of one remembered.

Uncertain as to whether she should touch him or not, Lilith reached cautiously for his arm, where she tentatively rested her hand just above the angle of his elbow. When he looked down at her, it was after a tiny jolt, as though he had momentarily forgotten she was there; not that she blamed him, since she knew how strange and often painful reliving memories could be. The comfort he took in her was neither spoken nor shown, but she could feel the tense amounts of energy singing in his shoulders and back ease beneath her hand.

He nodded back toward his younger self, indicating that she would either want or need to see what happened next.

The young angel was extracting a glowing, pulsing lump of matter from his chest. Ice blue in color at first, it frosted over with the thinnest sheen of violet as it met the air, it lay cupped in his hands and beat with a rhythm she could feel mimicked in the key at her throat. His heartbeat. That glowing thing was his _heart._

Her mouth dropped open, simultaneous with the momentum she used to turn, tearing her eyes from the memory-crafted Azrael to the real one. "That star died and gave you a heart?"

She didn't pretend to hide that the concept creeped her out, but neither did she feel quite as alarmed as she thought she should. The implication that his heart was not actually his own seemed like it should be grossly bizarre, yet she didn't actually feel that way. Even if that turned out to be true, she had been exposed to far greater (and stranger) revelations, and she knew she would accept the truth with whatever grace she had been given in birth.

"No," he soothed her, breaking free from the silent hold of his memory through the hitch in her voice. "My heart has always been of my own flesh, but it was Cjarsae's remaining life force that made it take the adaptations which allowed it to become so similar in—consistency, for lack of a better word—to a mortal's."

"It gave you…" Her fingers brushed the gold looping her throat just as memory-Azrael's did. "It gave you a heartbeat."

"And love."

The scenery that wrapped around them began to melt, its colors and textures running into a single blur of shadow as it faded back into the blackness from whence it had been born. She found herself seated upon the self same window ledge she had never left in the first place, watching Azrael withdraw his hands. While unperturbed by the transition from reality to its alternative, Lilith admitted that even such a tiny surge of magic through her system had left her feeling wearied.

Slumping delicately against the edge of the stone wall edging the enormous glass panes, she stifled a yawn and blinked up at her guardian, awaiting the next, inevitable portion of his explanation. When she found that he had both hands clutched to his chest and his jaw clenched in a mimic of the pain she could recall only the ghost of, she forced herself to swallow her panic and utilize a calm breathing pattern to sooth herself away from shrieking for help. He needed neither help nor an audience.

It wasn't pain he felt, as she gauged by the lack of its raw acidity in his face and expression, but effort, enough to bring the finest sheen of sweat to his brow.

As she watched, a soft violet-bluish light began to emanate from the space where she knew his heart lay. The quiet pulse in the key at her throat strengthened, the glow grew brighter, and Lilith let out a low, shivering breath to see him calmly extract the organ from the safety behind his ribcage.

It lay cupped in his hands, just like in the memory, glowing with a soft, subdued radiance. She noted that the beat had dimmed like a just-struck match flame, calmed after the initial shock of removal and adjustment to the air. Then, relaxing from the strain of the extraction, he held it out for her to see.

Fighting a mild swoop of nausea, not entirely sure she wanted to get an eyeful of organ meat, she inched tentatively forward to peer down at the heart…which looked nothing like one.

She had expected it to be lumpy, veiny with arterial tubes sticking out from either end. Instead, she found herself looking down at a piece of what looked like quartz, evenly and smoothly rounded to form an oval about the size and apparent density of an orange.

The glow given off seemed clear and steady at first, like light given off by a tiny bulb placed inside layer after layer of the material. But when she looked more closely, she could see that inside the outermost layer, the insides moved like a thick liquid, changing the tone and shape of the luminance. In fact, the light itself seemed to warp and shift about the heart's surface like a veil of flame.

"You can touch," he said, smiling when she gave him a look that was purely alarmed by the suggestion.

Feeling almost as though she really would rather not, she lifted a hand and brushed the very tip of one finger to its smooth surface. As though proving her idea right, the light-flame substance coiled briefly about her finger, attracted to the imminent contact just before she touched the organ which gave like firm muscle beneath the pad of her fingertip.

She recoiled, shocked by the chill of it and the subtle tempo of the pulse – so like that of the one she knew she would find at her own wrist should she look. It was like touching an ice cube that neither melted nor threatened to crack under pressure. The texture seemed impossible in relation to a living body, smooth as no muscle could be, clean and dry, with nothing but the fine, wispy veil of solid-gaseous light to offer anything but what might have been a very soft lump of stone.

"That's…weird," she informed him bluntly, rubbing the cooled finger between two others.

"Too much so?"

Her eyes lingered on the strange mass still cupped in his hands, watching the liquid-like flow of the light it seemed to resonate like song, shifting with color that alternated between countless shades of blue-violet. It was his magic there, swirling in and around this piece of unreal flesh. She couldn't have disliked it even if she had tried. "No," she answered slowly, "actually, I almost wish human hearts were so clean. Not to mention pretty."

She reached without thinking, then, considering it might be rude to touch again uninvited, she stilled and spoke up; "can I—?"

He took her curiosity and her calmness for the measure of acceptance she knew it was, and nodded. "Of course." When she made to stroke the smooth slope of the heart, he shifted its weight to one hand and used to other to grasp the back of her hand and form it to a shallow cup, into which he tipped the organ.

Proud that she didn't automatically drop it out of surprise, Lilith held her hand utterly still, staring, awed and impressed, down at the lovely thing settled in the cradle of her palm. It was such a simple design, so efficient.

The pulse at her breastbone increased just slightly, causing her curiosity to pique at whether it was due to her proximity to the heart or her contact with it. Her skin prickled beneath the vaporous trickle at her fingers, so like touching fire that it was difficult for the mind to comprehend all the way and yet it was too pleasant for her to feel like letting go.

She surmised that whatever veins and arteries he had (as he must, since she knew for a fact that he bled like a human would) fused themselves to the heart when it was inside him. So long as the machinery remained whole and uninjured, the system would continue to run properly, otherwise he wouldn't still be standing there, functioning without it.

When she vocalized this theory, he awarded her with a smile filled with enough pride to set her own heart aflame. "Very good!" he praised. "It is a simple design, but too reliant on magic for it to have worked in a material, mortal body, unfortunately. I've always thought mortal hearts incredible in their mechanics and stamina, however. Living bodies are fascinating."

"But gross," Lilith added dryly, delicately transferring the surprisingly light weight of his heart from one hand to the other. "All that fluid and tissue and icky stuff. Can you feel this?" She trailed a single finger down the crystal like surface.

"Yes."

Immediately she yanked her hand away, mortified.

His laughter was soft, soothing. "Only a faint feeling. More of an awareness than an actual sensation. If you were to press more firmly, I would feel you here," and he indicated the place where the organ should have been inside his chest.

"Would it hurt you?" she questioned, eyeing him with a sharpness that was determined to catch him if he tried to waltz around the answer.

"As you don't intend to harm me, no, I won't feel pain."

She repeated the stroking motion, pressing just a little harder, feeling it give just slightly beneath her finger. There was an instant spike in the rhythm echoed within the key at her sternum. It thrummed against her skin, a flaring pulse that followed a rush of adrenaline. Horrified, she shrieked, "you said—!"

"I told you I would feel no pain," he corrected, and she noticed that there was a subtle dust of pink at his cheekbones. "I didn't promise not to react. It is my _heart_ you're holding."

Somehow it had never struck her that holding someone's heart in her hands could be in any way _close_ to the level of significance as doing the same to someone's rear end. But, considering what it symbolized for him, and the highly personal nature of an internal organ, such a comparison suddenly seemed perfectly matched; it was just as forbidden, just as intimate. Sitting there, his heart cupped in her palms, cool and burning in its odd way, she knew she had crossed a line she could never cross back again.

It wasn't that there was anything sexual about holding it, because there wasn't. It was just that the act of handing such a treasured thing over to someone else implied a massive amount of trust. His assumption that she would respect him enough to handle something so unquestionably strange did not escape her comprehension.

The smile came almost of its own will, curving her mouth and warming her eyes as she lifted them to his face. She could see the apprehension there. His worry that she might not have the stomach to stand how different he really was streaked his expression as clearly as charcoal smeared across his ivory complexion. But she already knew it didn't matter.

Nothing as small as this could change how she felt about him; it merely added depth to her understanding.

She handed the glowing organ back to him, feeling the pulse at her throat ebb to a quiet shadow. "Why do I feel it beat so much more strongly when I touch both?" she asked, then amended the question after a second thought. "Actually, why do I feel it through the key at all?"

Something in the inquiry caused his answering smile to slide into a small frown. "Some things," he said slowly, cautiously, "even _I_ don't have an answer for."

The frown deepened, creasing the edge of his marble mouth. "I found the key dangling from my wrist after Cjarsae sealed what was left of her essence in me, but had to experiment to find any function. I learned that if I hold the key, I am more susceptible to emotion and secondary sensory feeling—pain, weariness, distraction. If I kept it too far away, I was too detached, too reliant on just what was important to Death. With both I had a balance, but only if I kept direct contact to a minimum."

That made an interesting amount of sense. So much of the immortal world was based on balance; too much humanity and he'd never master all the pain and suffering swirling around him, too much Death and he would be too cold to care. "Did you ever give it to someone else to hold…an assistant or attendant?" She refrained from touching the key at her neck, feeling suddenly uneasy about its presence there.

"Never," he shook his head, "every time I tried it felt wrong, it was like handing a part of my soul to another to keep safe. Eventually I stopped trying."

She felt a small chill at the base of her spine. "So then…"

"You felt right," he said simply, answering the question she hadn't known how to phrase. He lifted his cupped hands, angling them so the glowing organ rested between them and the slope of his chest, where he pressed until the flesh embraced it, swallowing the gem-like lump of muscle back into its shallow cage.

He took a step and turned to sit beside her on the window ledge. "For some reason I felt compelled to try. When I thought about it later, it made sense that you would be more able to carry it than anyone else. You are tied to me by my magic, bound to me by affection, and because of that bond I felt that perhaps if you carried the key, I would be near enough to keep from descending too far into Death but far enough to be…" he searched for an accurate conclusion, "isolated from my natural lean toward despair."

When he reached for her hand, she let him coax her fingers to twine between his own, unconsciously succumbing to the lulling lure of his warmth and stability. But her thoughts, however tired she might have been, remained firmly fixed on the newest of revelations. "And it works?"

"Amazingly enough," he replied, appearing to agree with her surprise, "it seems to."

"Wow…" She sighed and leaned to rest her head against his shoulder. By now, she was determined not to think herself to death over things like this; just because she didn't understand something completely didn't make it a bad thing. She was too tired to think too much anyway. "So I can hold the key to your heart? It's like we were meant to be or something."

He chuckled, scooping her into his arms and rising from the ledge. "Something like that."

She drifted off to sleep while somewhere between that instant of mutual agreement and their return to Azrael's suite, snuggled against his chest with one arm dangling over his shoulder, her head resting heavy against the other. He laid her to rest in his bed again, hoping that this time she would get more sleep.

As she lay there, cuddling into his pillows, he took a moment to reach inside her womb and weave another layer of protective binding spells around the unborn child. Thus far, there had been no serious threats of harmful magic from the baby, but he couldn't be sure it would stay that way. His magic settled, tightened its grip on the child, and held firm. If there were any unusual swells of Manath, he would know.

He bent to kiss her cheek, sweeping several blankets up close under her chin, and left her, begrudging the documents the time he would rather have spent resting with her.

* * *

**Good lord. I heartily apologize for the wait time, I had a heck of a time writing this chapter. I couldn't decide whether I wanted to have this part appear so soon or not, and by the time I made up my mind, school and work kept getting in the way of writing it! Ugh. I hope the next one won't take me so long. I'm sorry everyone!**

**I don't have much energy for replying to comments tonight, but I do want to take some time to thank every one of you who reviewed for me. You are all more amazing than I have words for. Thank you for your interest, your loyal support, and unending patience. I truly would not be here without you. And I'm not sure where I would be in real life, either. Know that with every review you send me, my nerve to keep my goal of future publication is strengthened. Thank you. You have my love and affection.**

**Hoping the next wait won't be so long!**

**Until next time!**


	15. I Bestow

**Chapter 15**  
I Bestow

Recommended Listening: "Where is My Mind" by Yoav feat. Emily Browning  
[from Sucker Punch], "Deep Within Me" by Lacuna Coil

* * *

— **Seventeen years ago —**

The shouts and exhilarated cries of the children playing in the park was the common soundtrack to almost every sunny summer's day. All about the sizable playplace with its bright-colored slides and rings and rope lattices for climbing, small bodies romped and ran, scattering coarsely chopped wood-chips. They shrieked challenges and war cries at their friends, urged their mothers and babysitters to watch as they displayed the perfect descent down the big twisty slide, landing on both feet, arms in the air.

All the while their parents and watchers kept a close eye, minding the adventures of their progeny, ready to gift accomplishments with praise and scrapes with a handy Band-Aid. The adults talked amongst themselves, read, sunned, or pushed their children on the swings.

Summer at its fullest, the city's citizens were lovingly locked in the spell of its warmth and light, made drunk from its magic.

It was the image of youth; stretches of time immortalized by the hearty mixture of wonder and fun. Nowhere was there prejudice, stress, worry, or care. Only age and exposure to the real face of life would cause them, someday, to carry such burdens, as could be seen tucked away, peeking out from the edges of their caretakers' careful facades.

The neighborhood was not the cleanest or the richest, but the adults who lived there had done their best to ensure that their children had a safe place to play. They watched out for one another, looking after the mass of children – even those not their own – to discourage unwanted flares of unfairness, conflict, or danger.

And yet there was one thing all those well-meaning mothers and babysitters, and the occasional father, had managed to overlook.

The small girl sat by herself on one of the sturdy poly-coated wooden benches lining the play area. Her legs dangled over the edge, too small to reach the ground, her overalls and cotton shirt just a little worn, and her dark ponytail slightly uneven at the tapered end. She made no noise and moved only enough to prove that she was, indeed, a human child prone to the occasional urge to fidget. Even despite her unusual talent for blending into backgrounds, for a regular visitor to the park, she went unnoticed.

Their eyes would slide over her chosen perch, unseeing, unknowing; almost as though they couldn't have noticed her even had they wanted to. But they didn't. To acknowledge her selected solitude would have encroached too close on the unwanted reality that nothing was as quaint and happy as it might have seemed.

If a passerby happened close enough to look, they might have seen the active, earnest way she watched her peers carrying on in their games. They might have noticed the way her green eyes strayed to the swings, nearly always occupied, or the way her tiny hands would every once in a while grip the edge of the bench as though she could feel the chains of a swing between her fingers.

No one seemed to notice the little five-year-old with the wistful eyes and shy smile for the endeavors of her fellow children; no one but the man who couldn't be seen for a different reason.

He found her there yet again, as he did almost every summer after noon's glare of heat had waned, settled to the far right of the bench – a place which granted her the clearest view of the swings. Her wide eyes never shifted from where they gazed, part hesitation and part longing, at the children laughing and playing. But he never expected her to notice his arrival.

For what seemed like the hundredth time that season alone, he sat beside her. One arm slung over the back of the bench, rough against the airy cloth of a shirt with negative substance in a world that couldn't see him. The other hand rested lightly against the seat to his right, between himself and the little girl who held his gaze for a moment more; just long enough for him to observe the clutch of her tiny hands in her lap, as though wishing for all the world they weren't empty.

While he had never quite known what to make of a child who knew concern enough to be wary of others, his understanding leant him sympathy for her fears. She was alone where all the other children had a loved one to show off for, to shout to, to give them juice and crackers when it was time to eat. Her clothes were secondhand, worn, a little dingy for the lack of an adult to see they were washed and pressed. Would they welcome her, or would they think her strange? He knew that her little heart wouldn't be able to bear it if she was cast away in revulsion.

Her silent guardian had stared into the face of human cruelty. He knew the way it could scar and deform the wonder and beauty that resided within innocence. But he also knew the incredible goodness in humanity's grasp, and that there was no place more abundant and overflowing with that goodness than in the eyes of children. And all children deserved to know it.

For that reason, he reached out to her, bringing the tips of his fingers to the back of a hand so dwarfed by his own that it could have been comical. With that touch, he sent her a sliver of encouragement to wrap about her heart and strengthen her resolve.

At first, it might have made no difference. She neither moved nor gave any indication of making up her mind at long last; not until he had long since returned his hand to the bench. Then, a moment later, very slowly, she slid from the bench and tentatively started forward, toward the swings where two other small girls and a boy were busy trying to see who could propel themselves the highest.

She hesitated upon reaching them, scuffing her shoes in a pile of wood chips, unsure of what to do. One of the girls saw her, smiled, and beckoned her forward as she skidded to a stop. Bouncing from her swing, she offered it over to the shy new playmate, who accepted with a small smile of her own.

The next day, as afternoon draped its thick shadows across the sun-dappled grass, he found her once again seated at the bench. Her eyes were lighter than he had seen them for some time, free of the inescapable wistfulness he remembered, her hands still and relaxed to either side of her knees.

As he sat, he watched her left hand reach very slightly toward him. It was an infinitesimal shift, no more than a casual adjustment for the sake of comfort, and yet it brought her fingers so close to his own that had she drawn any nearer, she would have felt his cool marble skin. The steady blood-heat of her human flesh warmed his fingertips.

It was as though, without clear understanding of what she was doing, she was thanking him. As though some part of her knew that he was the source of the bravery she had found to yet again hop down from her bench and patter toward her new friends and another adventure on the swings. A part of him softened when she did it.

She never again frequented the bench in loneliness.

— **Nine**** years ago —**

He arrived to the scene of what might have been a ransacking of the young girl's modest bedroom; clothes, books and paper had exploded all over the floor and worn secondhand furnishings, lying in cluttered dejection, scattered with the remnants of what had once been the insides of a pillow. Stuffing from what appeared to be an accidental rip in the cloth fell like a faint, artificial snow, upset every time the room's sole occupant moved.

And did she ever _move._

Panic was easily recognizable, not only for the frantic, staggered way she tore around her room, but also in the bloodless white of her face and the stains of both old and fresh tears glittering on her cheeks. She was utterly terrified. He could hear the sobs strangled by her harsh breath as she fell hard to her knees to dig through yet another bureau drawer.

She withdrew a tattered article of clothing leftover from her younger days, long since outgrown and grayed with age. A choked sound of relief escaped her throat as she lurched to her feet, clamped an arm across her midsection and ran for the hall as though she were dying.

Alarmed and bewildered, he listened to the hard double-edged click of the bathroom door being closed and locked, and scanned the room again as though he might find an answer as to what had so frightened his ward.

As soon as he spotted the blood dotting the sheets of her ravaged bed, he understood.

There was no mother to comfort her, to explain why she bled from such a strange, secret place, nor what to do when it happened. There was no one to make her a cup of tea and hold her while she cried about the injustice of it, as he knew she eventually would, or take her through the processes of growing up. There was no mother in her life in the ways that really mattered.

He glanced out the second-story window and saw no car. Mrs. Everett didn't drive, but it was a sure sign that if the father wasn't home, then neither was the mother. The duplex was a prison for her and her daughter, but Claire never seemed to be able to draw herself out of her own misery to realize that together they might have been so much stronger. Instead she chose to shun what her life had become and abandon her only child to resources the girl didn't know how to access; such as now.

As he watched, the front door opened and out came the girl, still deathly white and clutching at the hood of her sweatshirt as she braced herself against the light rain. She peered fearfully around the street as though to be seen was to be caught in the act of a crime before taking off at a cautious pace, trotting gingerly, as though she was in pain. Or trying to avoid it.

Where was she to go? What should she do? She was empty of ideas, her mind gone blank of all but her terror and certainty that she was slowly bleeding to death from a very inconvenient place.

He followed at a short distance, making certain she didn't wander into any busy streets as she dove down block after block. Her dark head swung back and forth beneath the hood, searching for something that evaded her reach until he could just hear the hitch of her breath begin to give way to another bout of tears.

_None of that, now__… _

He closed the space between their strides, allowing her to feel just the barest trace of his presence as he reached for her shoulders and steered her across the next intersection. She was inadvertently calmed by his touch, ghostly as it was, and took the steps to the women's clinic without giving way to frantic impulse.

Under his guidance, she approached the admitting desk, uttering the sensible words he nudged into clarity. The woman at the desk took pity on her stammered confession that she was bleeding in a bad place and didn't know why, and summoned a kindly female doctor who had just been about to leave for the evening. As the doctor fussed over the scared, confused girl and led her back to an exam room for a talk and some supplies, he hung back, enveloping her with a lingering comfort to ease her way.

She would find help here; all the kind words and information and advice she needed. He had done his part. A little too well, perhaps.

— **Some days later**** —**

Water from the leaky tap was always either too hot or too cold. She tried to coax it into heating just a little more, but gave up after yet another minute of hoping and put the stopper down. She didn't want to be accused of spiking the water bill again.

The plastic bottle of dish soap was almost empty, so she jotted a quick note on the grocery list taped to the fridge for the next time she or her mother went to the store. Measuring out the smallest amount she could, she watched the water in froth with clean bubbles and began to stack the day's dishes by the sink. It was a task she usually looked forward to, for no reason other than it have her an excuse to keep out of the way.

Dishes were quiet, nice, and unchanging. She didn't have to worry about their moods or the reach of their arms.

It was unfortunate, but true.

Barely even thirteen years of age and forced to wrestle with the grease-caked pan from the ham dinner prepared by a mother who had left for a second job not ten minutes ago. Not that this was anything new, but his anger about the injustice she didn't even realize she suffered was renewed every time he bore witness to it.

Her hands worked and worked at the pan, alternating from scrubbing pad to washcloth to rinsing with a practice that made him feel both sad and shamed. Yet she couldn't see him to know that his jaw was tight with it. On she scrubbed, focused only on her determination to have victory over the mess.

"Beer!"

She froze mid-stroke with the washcloth, her thin shoulders suddenly stiff and her green eyes glazed with a familiar spark of panic which muted like a candle hidden by a screen. Dropping cloth and pan, she hurriedly wiped her hands dry and tugged open the refrigerator door to peer inside.

He could see the panic return to her as though she had been drenched with it. And when she closed the door to approach the hallway between kitchen and living room, he watched her slender limbs begin a patterned trembling that brought a bought of nausea to his stomach.

"There aren't any more…" she murmured, so quietly that it was a near miracle it could be heard over the blare of the television in the other room.

"_What?_"

Had he been a dog, his hackles would have been up at the sharpness to the tone of the man's voice. His eyes narrowed dangerously as the flood of curses and foul words found his ears, vision closed upon the sight of the girl backing quickly into the counter as her father stalked into the kitchen and yanked the fridge door open, empty beer bottle clutched in the other hand.

The man had the heavy, wide-shouldered build befitting a construction worker, hard with sturdy muscles and thick bones; neither of which he had passed to his daughter. The only thing that struck a resemblance between father and child was the dark sheen of his hair, a brown as rich as polished mahogany, which lay clumped on his head with the sweat of a working day's labor. He was a man who had been raised with a certain expectation of how life was meant to be lived, consumed by a constant fury that his did not meet that standard.

It was a rage reflected in everything he said and did, often to the dismay of his surroundings, as the unseen observer had been quick to learn.

The girl cowered in a corner, sunk so deep into herself that she could do no more than shake when the door was slammed back into place and her father's curses blackened the air she took in with tiny, terrified gasps. Considering how the temper of her parent swelled to envelop the entire room, he truly couldn't blame her.

They both knew what was to come; the only question was exactly how and with what intensity the blows would fall. If she was lucky, her lot would spin to explosive words alone. But if she wasn't...

She had been beaten before, too many times for him to accurately number. Yet he had been forced to watch, bound by the barrier between his world and theirs; the laws that stated he could not allow himself to either be seen, heard, or sensed. He'd had no choice but to observe in silence as the brute of a man took her by the arm and threw her into a wall. As he struck her raw with the flat of a leather belt, slapped her until her head smacked the banister, knocked her hard enough to loosen teeth, cracked her ulna, split her lips, blackened her eyes and other, awful things.

It had nearly been more than he could bear, even after the countless horrors he had observed during his experiences with humanity. The sight of the helpless girl whom he had given his own God-witnessed oath to guard and guide bloodied with such brutality had nearly rent him in two. It had caused him to question how righteous the Guardianship rules truly were.

She must have thought she had a gift for quick healing, the number of times he had stepped in to ease her scrapes and pains. He hadn't been able to restrain himself; it wasn't fair for her to suffer so when he had the power to make it end.

Joseph turned to his only child, his face flushed with blood and his grip tight about the bottle in his hand. The intent streaked his face, glaring as a splash of paint to an otherwise empty canvas, signaling that this was not a night on which luck favored the girl huddled beneath her father's temper. He advanced on her, an angry lion, a variation on the theme of murder gleaming in his eyes.

The angel reacted before he realized that he was not about to let the wrath of a bitter man do any more harm to that child if he was there to prevent it. Fists were one thing – though no less harmful than any other weapon had the potential to be. But to bludgeon a girl with a bottle? Absolutely not.

He stepped between the two humans with a swiftness fueled by defiance to the creed that ordered him not to interfere; eyes flashing, teeth bared and a warning growl sliding from deep within his chest. Flung from the wellspring in the core of his being, magic gripped and twisted at the fibers of decision in the man's brain, reweaving them with the compulsion to be rid of rage in a way that would be less destructive to the child who shrunk from it.

He had no care for rules or commandments. He would not see his lawful ward come to any more harm at the hands of such thankless swine.

The tension in the room ebbed so quickly that the girl noticed. She blinked, confused when Joseph's steps slid to a halt, expression remaining fixed and still for just a fraction of a second too long. The angel quickly eased his hold on the human's mind, hastily tying up the changes he had made to the man's intent toward his daughter. She shouldn't have been allowed to see even such a small glimpse of magic…but it no longer mattered. She would be safe now.

As he was released, Joseph's arm jerked upward. The angel's low-pitched growl of warning and surprise went unheard, countered by the girl's whimper as she ducked her head, anticipating a blow.

But there was nothing to fear; the outlet of rage was found within the sharp sound of glass shattering against the floor. Though piercing and harsh, it was followed by the heavy footfalls of the bespelled man from the room, and her startled jump was gentled by the relief in her eyes. He too, was relieved. For a moment he had feared his spell had gone awry, but thankfully it had not.

Unfortunately, there was no legal allowance for him to make the spell permanent. There was no way to make it so that Joseph's frequent needs to rage and shout and wreak harm upon his small family would be voided and turned to lesser explosions, not without bringing serious determent upon himself. And it would do her no good to be put in the hands of another guardian. The idea caused him to bristle, indignant, seething with the instincts to nurture and protect.

The sound of a quiet, rattling sigh broke him from the dark thought of her charge being taken from him and he watched, righteous fury softening, as she sank to the floor and began sweeping up pieces of the broken bottle.

She was still trembling, enough to hinder her attempts to pick up the larger shards, threatening her fingers with cuts from the sharp glass edges. Kneeling beside her, he let a single hand rest against the slope of her shoulder, encouraging calm and serenity, communicating in his way that she was safe.

He didn't know then that the next time he was to see her; there would be a woman where once a girl had stood. He didn't know that when this day came, his life would be forever changed.

— **Eight**** years ago —**

The first thing he noticed was her eyes; those soft, gentle eyes wide with innocence and kind naivety. Bright and green, they darkened with a haze of longing that spoke of candlelight and rose petal silk. The next thing was her scent, light and rich and warm, pulsing with the beat of the blood in her veins, a hymn to life and youth. It was the fragrance of wildflowers smeared against her skin. Glorious, naked skin.

The smooth surface was soft, pale and pliant beneath the hands that wandered along the line of her back, a beautiful contrast to his callused fingertips. She shivered, yielding flesh pressing to his body and uncertain lips sliding along the firm edge of his jaw with a kind of blissful desperation.

He knew this need – knew the terrible, aching want to possess the slender body that squirmed beneath him, neck arched, legs twined with his. He knew the liquid fire and what it meant.

The clothing he wore was stifling, choking him, an unwanted barrier between the force of his desire and her echoing passion. Her lips were sweet and docile beneath his mouth, the deep, soulful kisses like fresh rain and sugar. The muffled noises from her lungs dug under his skin like pinpricks of pleasure, the velvet solace of her embrace warming his cold skin with a flush of sudden fever.

Lowering his mouth, he brushed a brief caress over the pulse beating frantically beneath her delicate throat. He closed his eyes, savoring the soft rustle of fabric as she fumbled with the buttons barring her from his bare chest.

The touch of her tender hands against his skin consuming him, painting him in burning honey while the tight grip of her thighs about his hips coaxed already heated muscles to clench and strain against the cloth that bound him.

The growl that shuddered from his lungs accompanied the warm iron of his hands when they took her by the bottom and filled his mouth with the softness of her breasts. Delight was in her sighs, her back arching to give freely what he otherwise could have gladly taken, and she shoved the shirt back from his shoulders to meet the flesh her want had heated.

When her hand slid downward along the front of his torso, pawing tentatively at the front of his trousers he allowed himself a groan, giving way to the pleasure of her touch. It was ecstasy to be so close to her. And with his senses full of nothing but her, instinctual cravings kicking into overdrive, he pressed her down into the sheets with a soft noise of satisfaction.

She was gentle and sweet and willing; responding to his touch, tasting his mouth, his skin, cradling _his_ body between her legs. _Him _and only him: no one else. She was his and his _alone._ When she shattered, she would do so for him, and when he chose to impale her upon the endless reach of his desires, she would welcome him with open arms.

"_I'll take your breath away…_"

He jerked, waking from the dream suddenly enough to leave him in vertigo for a long, nauseating moment. His eyes were wide, chest heaving with deep, harried breaths he shouldn't have needed and which left him startled and gasping.

Every image, every sensation of touch and scent was as clear and vivid as it had just been a moment ago. Each murmured word, every languid stroke of skin to naked skin, all the sighs and cries, every rustle of clothing lingered long after the dream had died. The near-painful pressure was there too, a strain that was far from innocent.

"No," he whispered; his voice hoarse and eyes flashing pale with sick, irrefutable horror.

The rich black sheets of the bed were rumpled and twisted about his legs, torn in places where he had pulled too hard at flesh that hadn't been there. He had tossed and turned so violently that his clothing was half discarded, sticking to flushed skin.

He knew it was by his own restless fingers that this state had come to him; that his own hands had tried to tear the shirt to shreds shuck the loose slacks. Knowing gave him no relief.

"No, no, _no_—this _can't_ _be happening…_"

One trembling white hand lifted to shove the hair from his face. A fine layer of sweat coated his body, hot and half-fevered with the echoes of fading desire, sweat that soaked his clothes and the sheets wound tight against his thighs and groin.

Teeth bared, lips curled with vehement displeasure, he snarled. The noise low with disgust and wounded shame, he fought viciously to be free of the offending cloth, kicking and tearing like a panicked crazed animal desperate to escape from a cage. When he managed to free himself, the sheet lay in a tattered ruin. It wilted under a glare that could have stolen a man's breath with the sheer ferocity of his loathing.

He shouldn't have gone back to her. He should have returned her to Cassiel's guardianship after the peace-talks had adjourned and left well enough alone. Their connection had been moderate at best; there had been no reason to return.

But that was a lie.

Shielding a charge from the blows of a father, casting aside laws he had never before thought to break. Healing her cuts and bruises because he hadn't liked to see the marks on her skin or the pain in her eyes. Masking her from boys on the street who could have been completely innocent simply because he hadn't wanted another male anywhere near her. Neither of these was to be counted among the purest of deeds.

Wasn't it bad enough that he had been foolish enough to protect the little girl he had been ordered to go to as an infant – against almost every law of secrecy? And now, after thirteen years of watching silently from the shadows, keeping her safe and whole and well, he had the audacity to want her? He _dared_ to dream of what it would feel like to hold her and kiss her? To make love to her…

He spat another curse and stripped from the soiled clothes before casting the ruined garments away. Not bothering to redress, he sank into the chair positioned at the end of the bed, naked and shivering, consumed by his misery. Dropping his head into his hands, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and tried in vain to banish the vision of his ward's slender body from his brain.

How had he come to this? _He,_ an angel of the heavens, sacrificing his purity of thought to the dreams of mortal men; how disgustingly shameful.

It was wrong to want her the way he did, wrong to lust after the woman molded from a child he had guarded and looked to like a father would a daughter. Some _father_ he was; to turn on a child like some twisted kind of monster, to shelter and comfort one moment only to strip her of innocence and dignity when she had no hope of denying him.

He shuddered, leaning wearily against the smooth obsidian wall, sickened and mortified that he was capable of such an atrocity.

It was just that she was so beautiful, so quiet and curious and kind. She was still the girl he had guarded; still shy, still intelligent and observant, still wistful and sweet-natured. Utterly intoxicating purely because of how very unlike Rebecca she was. Yet it hurt to think of her now, of her sweet, heart-shaped face and bright, inquisitive eyes. The picture of her eyes led to the lush, pink curve of her mouth, the stubborn little chin, the long line of her neck and soft white shoulders.

He had to stop. This was _wrong._

She was sugar-coated sin; the scarlet ribbon wound tightly around his throat and wrists to tie him to the sword of his own emotional weakness. The satin sliced his skin, cutting through flesh and the blood that welled from his wounds stained the crimson black with the corruption inside him. He wanted her badly, desperately. His entire body burned for the mere memory of her, and still he wanted to crucify himself for thinking of her in such an unclean manner.

_Damn_ it, he had turned his back on this; this illusion of devotion and piety to the heart. He had sworn that he would never love again. A broken oath, it seemed, torn to shreds by the pitiful sight of a defenseless girl-turned-woman who had managed to scrape her way down to the very core of his soul in order to grip like a flower's roots. The fragile glass wall separating him from his humanity had shattered, and now it stung even worse knowing that it wasn't just that he hungered for her, but that he truly, deeply wanted to love her in every sense of the term.

But that didn't change what he had done tonight. Not by a long-shot.

Too highly strung to sleep and terrified to try due to the risk of another feverish dream, he got shakily to his feet and sought clean clothes. Pulling on new slacks and a plain shirt, he slipped from the room, determined to escape the chamber that had morphed from a sanctuary to a house of torment.

It didn't matter that he knew he had more than physical desire for naïve little Lilith, it didn't matter that he still wanted to protect and cherish her. All he could see was impurity of thought, betrayal of duty – an unforgivable sin. He headed for the medical wing, hoping beyond hope that Pandora would be able to help him.

He just needed to talk, needed a distraction from his warped imagination. If she would listen, then that was enough of an escape for now, and he would deal with the sleep factor later.

He wouldn't think about the silken texture of her skin, the dark contrast of her soft hair. He wouldn't remember the smooth curves of her hips and thighs, the classic line of her pale throat or the luscious, flavorful smell of her. Not the shameful way the towel clung to her delicate frame or the willowy length of her flexible limbs, the way her little pink tongue traced her own lips when she combed her hair, or the tantalizing valley that trailed between the softness of her breasts…

"_Stop it!_"

A closed fist slammed into the cold surface of the nearest wall, frustration mingled with a lapse in control and leading to an accidental access of magic. Power blazing like fire through his veins, it sank into the stone beneath his hand. It buckled under the pressure and the stone cracked. A spiderwebbing of tiny crevices marred the wall from floor to ceiling, crawling along the crown of the pillar several yards away.

With a growl of self-loathing, he pulled away, haunted by words that he knew very well were little more than lies. Yet he couldn't help but believe them now, as the voice of his conscious hissed like a viper to remind him of his wickedness.

"_Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, 'Thou shalt not commit adultery.' But I say unto you, that whosoever looketh on a woman, to __lust__ after her, hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.__" _

"A sex dream. _You_ had a _sex dream?_"

The answer to this question came in the form of a livid glare. Near-black eyes gleamed from behind a veil of mussed pale hair, elegant lips pulled back as a smooth, light hiss slid from the patient's throat.

Obviously Azrael was not in the mood to be teased. This was the face he wore when he wished to make it perfectly clear that he was in a mind-set that could end in bloodshed. It was rare that circumstances found him in such low spirits, but baiting him when in such a foul temper was walking the edge of a hurricane. He had great power at his fingertips; power she had no desire to play with.

She rolled her eyes, but complied with the unspoken wish. "All right, fine."

Her ruby red hair gleamed as she shifted, primly crossing her legs at the knees and adopted a more professional tone. "Have you ever had one before?"

"Once," his brow furrowed. "But not like this."

Pandora's gaze was scrutinizing to the maximum of its capacity, silver-gray irises nearly engulfed by the pupils due to the darkness inside her office. It was late. She hadn't been expecting him to come banging on her door at such an hour, especially not such a disheveled state. The angel was usually so proper and dignified, harboring strict mastery over himself in every situation. It was almost inconceivable to her that something as mundane as a dream would rattle him so hard.

_Almost._

True, she hadn't exactly expected him to develop such a strong (physical as well as emotional) attachment to the girl he had taken under his wing of guardianship, but it didn't strike her as horrible as he seemed to think she should. He had never been intended to live in solitude, after all.

She tilted her head and looked at him; just looked, taking in how quickly his shirt had soaked with sweat since admitting him. His hands were shaking and his eyes were dark enough to be mistaken for chips of onyx. Deciding it best not to comment on the clear signs of shock he was displaying, since there was no risk of him taking ill from it, she commenced with her questions.

"Any pain? Stiffness? Unpleasant side-effects—?"

"The whole _goddamn_ thing is an _unpleasant side-effect!_" He snarled, murderous in his agony. His hands had clenched into fists, causing his biceps to strain at short, tight sleeves. The feral tremors of power rippling through his body and echoed in the static air would have been enough to scare a mortal out of its wits. It was a known fact that there was nothing in the world more terrifying than an angel in a rage.

And this was not just any angel. This was the Right Hand of God, the angel who could strip the flesh from bones with a mere flick of his wrist, the angel who could twist the elements to his will and render the earth into the gray dust of memory.

He was Death, whose hands held the pen that wrote of the beginnings and endings of all human life. His just and righteous nature was famed for its honor and virtue, but while he was perfect in every other way, his emotional capacity was his downfall. He may have had all the magic in the world, but it was useless when it came to matters of feeling.

But Pandora knew better than to enable his despair by dancing around the Seraph's delicate inflections of mood. "It was just a _dream,_ for chrissake," she snapped. "You're fine—_she _is fine."

"She is a fourteen-year-old girl," he whispered, hoarse with terrible self-disgust, peerless face twisted with pain. She watched with a growing sense of dread as the anger in him faded to a chilling despair and he groaned, "_fourteen…_"

Her grip upon his arm was firm when she leaned forward to look him in the eyes. "What are you saying—that you're some kind of monster? You know better than that."

He turned his head away, shamed, as though he were too soiled to look at her.

"Stop sulking and _think_ about this for a minute! She bleeds! The fact that you find her desirable alone proves she's a _woman_ now, so you have no reason to feel guilty." When he said nothing, she filled her hands with his shirt and shook him roughly. "God sent you to this girl on purpose, probably counting on you getting it through your thick Seraph skull that you were wrong."

He looked up, staring at the healer though he had never seen anything quite like her before. "I was—"

"Wrong, Azrael!" She repeated, "_Wrong._ You were never meant to go to Rebecca and you knew it. And when it went wrong you locked up so hard so quickly that you never gave yourself a chance to wonder if maybe Mother wanted you to wait so the birth of a good partner could align with the balance."

Pandora snorted, releasing him with a dramatic flail and slumping backward in her seat.

"But _no._ You decided to mope around and make yourself miserable. And now that you find the girl who's so _obviously_ meant for you, _you_ freak out over one little wet-dream which—may I remind you—is a perfectly natural phenomenon. For the love of everything holy, you are not a marionette!" She frowned. "According to Rebecca you were a pretty damn good lover, too. What the bloody hell happened to your backbone? And what—"

"This has nothing to do with my virility, Pandora," Azrael interrupted, though he did look mildly bemused by her backhanded compliment. "This is about my developing some sick perversion and dreaming about bedding a woman who isn't even truly a woman yet."

She made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "Nonsense."

"It's hardly nonsense if I can't pull myself together after a glimpse of bare legs and shoulders." He groaned. "I can't get the smell of her out of my head—there, you see?" His rage flew back with a vengeance, his aura flaring with the scarlet tone of anger.

"Oh, shut _up,_ already!"

Scarlet flooded lavender eyes, the red tinge catching the dim light when he pinned her with a vicious glare.

Pandora would not be intimidated. She rose from her chair and strode away from him, remarking over one shoulder: "It's useless talking to you when you're like this. I refuse to listen to you abuse yourself."

"I am not—"

"Yes you are." Pandora paused at her work table, fussing distractedly with the contents of one of the many little drawers that lined the surface. "You're making yourself out to be a villain when you're really just floundering around for an answer."

Turning, she flounced gracefully back to her chair and gave him a penetrating look. "Seriously now—you love her. Love has never been impure when it's real, so don't waste your time sulking and let some human idiot snag her before you. Because let's face it; no one alive could treat her better. No one knows her like you do."

He sighed, passing a hand over his flushed face and closing weary eyes. Deep down, he knew she was right. If he remained her guardian, there was no way he would find the strength to allow a man to court her. He would waste away without her, fall into a pit of misery so dark that not even time would dig him out. There would be no other for him. Not ever.

She deserved someone who would cherish and coddle her, treat her like a queen, tread gently around her delicacy and respect her strength. She needed someone who understood her. And who understood her better than he; her guardian of thirteen years? Yet how was he supposed to drop everything and profess his devotion to a poor mortal girl who would surely drop into a faint at the sight of him? If he even decided to show himself at all.

No, if she deserved anything now, it was time. Time would allow him to gather his wits again, to find some kind of order; it would be a restriction, a protection so he wouldn't do something he would undoubtedly regret.

"I just need time," he murmured heavily.

"What you _need_ is some serious recuperation sex." Pandora's smile was a dainty reply to his reproachful glower. "Well you _do,_" she insisted cheerfully.

"It's lovely to know I can count on you to help me through this," Azrael shot back, sarcasm lacing his voice with salt.

Pandora ignored the unhappy retort. Hands balled in the pockets of her coat, she studied him with an eye that had relinquished humor and chastisement in favor of concern. "Do you think you'll be able to sleep any more?"

The sigh was cold against his lips. "Not likely—"

She didn't give him time to evade her.

Lunging forward, she stabbed something thin, sharp deep into the flesh of his arm, directly into the brachial artery. He jerked backward, yanking his arm out of reach. Her graceful acceptance of his retreat and the way she settled back in her chair with a self-satisfied smile tugging at the curve of her lips told him that the damage had already been done.

"What in—"

He stared down at the bend of his arm and the tiny spot of blood welling up from the needle hole in his white skin. Pale eyes flashed upward, widening when they rested upon the now empty needle Pandora had just tucked back in her pocket.

Then the tingling began. It spread from the arm to warm his body from the inside, making him feel sleepy and dim-witted.

"You…you _drugged_ me—"

Rising from the chair, she slung an arm around his waist and wedged herself under his shoulder to drag him upright. Immortal strength maneuvered the angel's lethargic body out of the medical wing and back toward his own rooms. "That I did," she amiably agreed, as though heartily enjoying the conversation that had turned purely one-sided. Azrael could no longer speak. The sleep-inducing medication was quickly working to send him deep into a state of dreamless slumber.

She got him as far as his study, where he finally lost consciousness only moments after mustering the energy to unlock his door. Gently she deposited the angel's heavy body into an armchair. Then, after one last affectionate pat to his mussed, white-blond head, she turned to go, murmuring, "Just rest, Angel Boy. Everything will look better in the morning."

— **Present time —**

It was easy to lose himself in the patterned flow of his work. The souls would run together like oil-based paints, creating a steady blur of faces, names, and histories until they began to replace those who inhabited his waking life; turning shadows into flesh and the memory of brother and friend alike into something less corporeal than was deserved. Time slowed, and sometimes even stopped altogether, as was the way with the forces beyond reason, rule, or comprehension.

Sometimes it felt as though nothing else existed. For that reason above all others, he did not hate his assignment.

When he coaxed the last stubborn traces of life from the shells of his mortal charges and escorted them with a firm, patient gentleness to their respective afterlives, there were no puzzles to be solved, no worries to be mulled over. There was nothing but him, the souls, and the spice of their personalities, their histories, and their reactions upon looking Death in the face.

No mortal truly understood death; which was the source of so much of the fear he'd had to swallow since humans had succumbed to the circle of birthing and dying. In reality, it was all about balance, equivalent exchange. In order to create something as beautiful as a tie to earthy flesh and being, something had to be given in return. Thus, flesh had been made temporary while the spirit would bloom and soar once a person died.

Whether God had consciously known and acknowledged this concept upon the creation of Adam and Eve was not common knowledge. Personally, Azrael suspected that she hadn't, that, much like humans did, rules and laws had been theorized to fit with what made sense until proven either true or false. What he did know was this: balance was everything. Nothing was complete with just one side.

No one wanted to think about how thin the thread between them was. Everyone shunned what they didn't understand, and that was natural of all beings regardless of species or age. But everything needed change. Even life – founded with the ideal of free will – needed death to quicken its breath and keep its perspective from wandering aimlessly without rhyme, reason, or flavor.

It was all equivalent exchange.

From alchemy to sorcery, from prosperity to suffering, from days of joy and days of sorrow; everything must have balance.

It was a law he was well familiar with, being a mage. Magic was reliant on energy of many kinds, and energy was reliant on balance. The desired output had to have an equal amount of input, otherwise spells would fail and some would leech the energy right out of the intending conjuror.

Magic was what called him from the last of his charges in a rush; not the magic itself, but a summons driven by it.

As he traveled with the aid of light and sound as wings to guide him, he ruminated on the perpetual shift of all things in nature, and that balance which kept it all from simply flying apart. When he came to the Eyrie, he was bombarded by a pack of his own soldiers. They were worried and jumpy, relaxing only the faintest amount when they recognized their general; an affect of the nasty incident which had just occurred.

Two of them escorted him into the fortress' cavernous rooms, presenting him with a summarized version of the official report. Near the midnight change of sentries, one of his captains had apprehended what had appeared to be a Mazikim demon – a regular infantry fighter in humanistic shape. But when the captain had brought the demon in for routine questioning, the demon had aimed a curse at the lieutenants present at the time.

Ezekiel had taken action to make certain he was the only one stricken, but the affects had taken a brutal turn, revealing that the demon had not been Mazikim at all; but something far more deadly. So far, none of the medics or cursebreakers had been able to help him.

Azrael took the stairs to the medical rooms two at a time, flying through the halls until he reached one of the private corners, packed with healers, battle-mages and powerful spell-casters. The congregation had gathered about the cot, gripping bags of herbs and cases of instruments; all opened, but untouched. No one was quite sure how to proceed. Once Azrael drew near enough to see clearly, he understood why.

It was a show of how brave and tenacious Ezekiel was that he could keep from screaming. His torso was a mass of blood and ichor, an oil that ran in the veins alongside other demon fluids, used as both lubricant to travel between realms as well as energy source and weapon. In small amount on the skin, it caused mild irritation and burning.

But Ezekiel's skin wasn't fully whole to keep him protected. Without skin to take the brunt of the poison, he would become contaminated and his body would die of blood-loss and poisoning.

The flesh of the angel's body appeared to be unraveling like woven yarn. Slice after slice curled away from the gaping hole which nearly halved his body at the stomach, ashen and charred as though it burned from the inside out. Fluid dripped from his skin to the cot, soaking the sheet and the cloth of his slacks with black and dirty red. He had bloodied his lips to silence his own cries, but agony had carved his face with lines and dilated his emerald eyes.

It took Azrael a moment to recognized the curse as a seldom-used torture technique popular among Seriu demons – soldiers of the cruelest, most brutal class in the demonic army. But the appearance of it made no sense. Torture only worked when there was time and space enough to worm information out of a victim.

Unless the intent hadn't been to get information…

"Cassiel, Barbael, I need you."

His remaining lieutenant and guard came forward, gripping his shoulders and opening themselves to his reach, offering their power for him to shape and mold into the correct shape.

Magic swirled and folded, falling like liquid sparks from his hands as he held them out over Ezekiel's body, thickening as they touched the marred mess of flesh and blood and oil. A cloud of shining power shimmered and pulsed as they burrowed into the patient's abdomen to block off clean, whole muscle from the rapid spread of rot by flushing the area with command.

When he pressed his hands to the open wound, Ezekiel's screams scraped at the stones of the Eyrie's framework and reached deep into the earth. Deeper he pushed, staining his fingers, until he could feel the beat of the poison inside, eating at his soldier's body and spirit.

It didn't want to relinquish to him, for all that he was more powerful and had two sources of energy to drown it with. The spell clung tightly, snarling, weaving into the fibers of Ezekiel's heart and brain, and steadily peeling yet more flesh from his midsection until it almost reached the angel's chest. With one hand, Azrael reached up into the open cavity of Ezekiel's body as the angel yelled with pain and bowed his spine to twine his fingers around the place where the curse had taken root.

"_Nu vulna salen'tu…non timebo mala._"

Azrael watched as strips of magic rose from the angel's afflicted body like folded paper butterflies, flitting desperately about the air before they crumbled without sustenance. His eyes narrowed, his lips pulling back from white teeth as the identity symbol burned into his mind.

When all was quiet and magic had faded into the sound of Ezekiel's shuddering gasps, the rapid decay had ceased and the ichor had been purged from his bloodstream. Azrael checked his lieutenant's pulse to find it weak but steady. He stepped aside to allow the healers to work at bandaging and cleaning the wound, grasping Ezekiel's wrist briefly, thankful that the ailment had been something he could fend off.

Gesturing for Cassiel and Barbael to follow, he left the room, feeling the exertion of magic as a small tingle at the back of his neck. With their help, he had avoided draining himself very heavily, but he had used a lot if power in a rapid amount of time, and he could feel the affects of doing so.

"You saw Arawn's mark?" Cassiel inquired the moment the three of them stepped into the cool, unlit hall outside.

"I did," Azrael said, the words tight with the anger that coated his insides with ice. "For what reason, another demon carried his mark I don't know, but I'll be damned if I'll let a Soldier demon get away with an unprovoked attack on my officers outside the battlefield."

Barbael's tone was calm as she asked, "shall I send a petition to Nergal?"

"Yes. I want to know why a Soldier that's been inactive since the Ides of March has suddenly been hurling curses." He paused. "Also, contact Uriel. I need him to send the Grimoir to me as soon as he's able—we need to know how to grow back Ezekiel's flesh."

"Very good, sir." She nodded and left to do as she had suggested.

Watching her go, Azrael asked his remaining lieutenant, "where is the Mazikim?"

Cassiel pressed his lips together, furrows drawn into his mahogany skin, outlining his frown. Wordlessly, he held forth a plain glass jar – the kind used for storing oils and other loose substances used in magic – empty but for a handful of ash.

For a moment, the general was absolutely still, eyes filled with the jar and its contents before sighing and looking away. "I see. I take it he did this to himself?"

"As soon as the curse hit. He just burst into cinders in the arms of our guards, even after we'd set up a series of cocoon shields to isolate him."

"But of course."

Lifting violet eyes to the ceiling, Azrael allowed his senses to sharpen, feeling the air as it filtered through the moonlight behind the heavy walls of the sanctuary. It was late. He had to get back to Hell, to Lilith, and receive Pandora's most recent update on the pregnancy. He had to go through a few more books before the night was over, gather more on Eve and her part in whatever it was Lucifer was stirring up.

Time had finally caught up with him.

"I must go…" he whispered, resting his head against the stone behind him as another small wave of weariness rippled through him.

Cassiel inclined his head, causing his many tiny braids to whisper across his broad shoulders. "We can hold the fortress, _Darine, _until you have your meeting."

Sighing gently, Azrael rolled his shoulders against the rapid onslaught of growing exhaustion. "I have no doubt you can," he said. "But I want to set Ezekiel with some protections before I go, just in case."

"Do you think Arawn will try to get to him again?"

"I don't know if he will but he certainly could, taking his skill with concealment into consideration." Azrael made a quiet noise of disgust at the back of his throat. "I don't want to think about it now. Come help me with a guard circle."

Cassiel had a bag of chalk in a pocket, which they each took a handful of upon returning to Ezekiel's cot, where the angel was still passed out cold, though he looked much better with clean bandaging around his middle. Murmuring words of protective power, hiding, warding, and blocking as they walked, they circled the bed; one clockwise, the other counter-clockwise.

The trail of chalk drank in their power and their instructions, familiarizing itself with those put in charge of taking care of the patient it protected and knowing to allow no one else inside the double circle.

Once he was sure Ezekiel would be protected against any further attempt of harm, Azrael impressed upon his remaining lieutenant to keep him notified of any changes regarding either patient or unexpected activity. When he left, it was with another pang of mild exhaustion.

Courtesy of equivalent exchange.


	16. Sanctuary

**Chapter 16**  
Sanctuary

Recommended Listening: "Tomorrow Never Knows" by Carla Azar [from Sucker Punch]  
and "Wexford Carol" by Alison Krauss feat. YoYoMa

* * *

Nergal was nothing but gracious in her handling of Azrael's request. According to Barbael (carrier of the demon general's reply), she had forwarded the appeal for a meeting with one of her solders to Cain – the Ghost under which Arawn actively served – and Cain had promised to send his subordinate as soon as duty permitted. When translated into immortal time; the actual meeting wouldn't take place until two days later.

Unwilling to allow even a shred of risk to his injured lieutenant, Azrael sent a polite but firm condition to Cain that Arawn arrive at a predetermined location a safe distance from the Eyrie. Ezekiel was on the mend, but the progress was slow and painstaking for both Pandora's healers and the patient. There was a chance that exposure to more negative energy could poison the lieutenant even further.

There was a potential threat to the rest of the fortress' residents as well. Arawn's status as Seriu, commonly referred to as a Soldier demon, was not regarded without caution. Soldiers were ranked among Hell's more forbidding weapons, for while they were not as powerful as the Ghosts in terms of raw strength, they had the brutality and the arsenal befitting the most honed and tireless of berserkers. Arawn in particular was no different, despite his deceptively amiable attitude and penchant for haunting high-end taverns and singing ballads.

Azrael's concerns didn't extend to his own safety, nor that of his people, but he did know that under the lingering taste of chaos left behind the attack on his lieutenants, the potential for an explosion from either side (most likely his) was high. Because Hell had already taken several offensive stabs, any purposeful response from Heavenly agents would be equivalent to a signed concession of open war from both sides.

In the long run, the wisest option would be to isolate the meeting in a neutral place with only his calmest, oldest, and most collected officers to aide him. This was why the chosen support party had been whittled down to three members; Cassiel, Barbael and Moro.

A quartet of powerful, magically-inclined angels was something to make any solo demon nervous, which was an advantage they were counting on to encourage truthfulness and cooperation. If their quarry was in combative spirits, they would be more than a match for him.

Chosen for its safe distance from both the Eyrie and from the nearest inhabited human settlements, the abandoned church was both a blessing and a discomfort. Generally angels preferred high, open places from which they could scope and maneuver at whatever desire or requirement. A cloistered, decrepit building shrouded by thick forest was not to their direct liking, for all it neither hindered nor endangered them. The enclosed space would make it easier to contain their subject should a need arise.

Moro, disliking the drafty, sun-filtered pews more than her fellows, had spent at least an hour prowling the grounds outside the little church's rocky seat upon the slope of a shallow hill. The early summer morning was clouded and dense with the promise of rain and dew clung to the white angel's skin and hair when she slipped back through the aged door that was more iron hinges and supports than wood.

"If he flees," she stated, addressing Cassiel who was stationed at the entrance, "we should hobble him before he has a chance to disappear." Her pale green eyes flickered to the two angels situated farther into the old church. "The forest is dense. Tracking won't be much of an option."

Azrael nodded, understanding the difficulty of trying to track a Soldier famed (among other things) for his ability to vanish into thin-air whilst pressed in upon by the thick Romanian pines. "I think it might be best if one of you concealed yourself in the rafters, just to be certain we have at least one angle guaranteed to be in our favor."

"Moro," Cassiel agreed promptly, turning his dark head to peer outside between the cracked slats of the door. "Her cloaking is better than ours." A sentiment to which Barbael agreed with a nod.

"Very well then," Azrael gestured upward and Moro leapt lightly up to settle, perfectly balanced, upon a beam which looked much too decayed to hold the weight of a grown woman. She closed her eyes and, with a quiet exhale, cloaked herself in a mixture of shadow and illusion to vanish into the background. From white hair to spirit energy, she was utterly invisible.

"Barbael, as I'll be focusing on my truth spells and whatever else I may need, I'll have you keep an eye on his movement. If he so much as twitches in a way that mirrors an attack, either distract him until I can change direction or do whatever you need to do to disarm him."

Barbael was fingering the hilt of the saber strapped to her thigh, her eyes consumed with a deadly focus as she pulled the energy in the air around her body, adding her own force to charge it with a fine current of electricity. In a higher altitude, it would already have become lightning. But here, it would wait for her call before it cleaved its prey into charred pieces.

"Cassiel," Azrael murmured, leaning against the pew on which he had rested the booted toe of one foot, "if he tries to run, block him, corral him back this way. We only need a moment."

The tall, brawny angel murmured, "yes," the rich mahogany tone to his skin flickering with shadows echoed from beyond the door. "Whatever else we need to plan, let's do it fast."

Azrael straightened, lowering his foot to the soil-dusted floor to adopt a wider and steadier stance as he faced the door.

For all intents and purposes, he seemed the most casual body in the room, but the outward façade was a mask concealing the stores of energy gathering in shimmering waves beneath his skin. He spared a moment for each subordinate; from Barbael, grim-faced and crackling with electricity, to Cassiel, watching the door with shoulders set, and finally to Moro, untraceable to the eyes and senses but for the tiniest trace of her magic unveiled just long enough to send him a glimpse of her readiness.

"He comes," Cassiel warned, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. It would be the only show of his fury toward the Soldier who had injured his comrade until ordered otherwise.

"We're ready," Azrael's voice was feather-light, softer than the finest down, a cue to his fellow angels that he had already begun weaving spells for encouraging truth and submission.

Slowly Cassiel distanced himself from the door so as not to chance spooking the approaching demon. Moving with a liquid smoothness, he put several yards between himself and the iron-striped wood by the time it swung open and bathed the newcomer in weak, filtered early morning sunlight.

Crossing the threshold, Arawn appeared no more threatening than a teenage boy in straight-legged white slacks and a thin, close-woven shirt of a stormy gray, his sleeves rolled up to make his weaponless state all the clearer. His shoes were the priciest thing about his attire, expensive leather boots stitched, not glued, and tucked beneath his pants.

His paper-white wrists were striped with what seemed to be black tattooed rings which increased in thickness as they progressed upward along the column of each forearm. Scars, the angels knew, not tattoos. The Starkiller had many such adornments. When he knelt upon the threshold of the old church and bowed, he exposed the inky lines of another prominent mark of scarring that arced about his collar, over his shoulders and along his upper back.

The overall affect gleaned from the appearance was, Azrael suspected, intentional. Arawn wanted to emphasize weakness as symbolized by old injuries, vulnerability, and implication of a willingness to comply. Whether it was deception or truth, he couldn't be certain.

"Greetings, My Lord Shinigami," Arawn lifted his eyes to offer an airy smile. "My Lord Cain informed me you had expressed a wish to meet with me."

There was something strange about the way he had worded his greeting. Azrael focused his magical sight more tightly to the demon's face, trying to read beyond the presented countenance of polite curiosity. It was difficult; there didn't seem to be anything beneath the outward expression.

"I had made such a request," he admitted smoothly, gesturing for the Soldier to rise and approach.

To their credit as guards, neither Barbael nor Cassiel made any indication that having a potentially dangerous and unpredictable demon near their general was a cause for concern. Cassiel merely took advantage of the opportunity to glide back to his place in front of the open doorway to block any attempted escape. Moro remained silent and untraceable in the rafters, keeping her watchful eyes on the floor below.

Arawn's approach was steady, but he was careful not to make any sudden movements to provoke predetermined retaliation. Whether or not he suspected the reason for his summons, Arawn was not fool enough to pretend the presence of guards wasn't reason enough for caution. He stopped within a respectful distance from the seraph, between two pews which had decidedly seen better days. "To what to I owe the honor?"

Barbael shifted behind her general, a tiny adjustment of her hand to her weapon, belying her surprise and uncertainty. Azrael understood. There was nothing about Arawn's attitude that matched the crime he was supposed to have committed. For one thing, he was behaving entirely too mildly, no defensiveness, no worry, no defiance. And for another, there was nothing in his aura to betray guilt.

Fingers tightening their grip upon the smooth chunk of un-cut opal held between them, Azrael took a steadying breath before slipping it back into his pocket. "I admit the reasons for my summoning you here are on the complicated end of things," he said quietly, and motioned the demon to a seat upon the pew across from him. "The first of which is that I owe you a debt of gratitude for coming to the aid of my ward."

Inclining his head, Arawn flashed another minute smile. "A purely selfish action, I assure you," he claimed, taking the offered seat at a slightly jaunty angle. "Besides, had I not, something nasty may have happened and I'd be standing here for a very different reason. A charge of negligence, perhaps."

Azrael said nothing in reply to this, his lips merely tightened into a firm line as he contemplated the best way to tread around the issue he had to bring up. Pushing another thread of magic into the weave of spells around the subject, he sank into his own bedraggled pew and steepled his fingers together before his chest. "The other matter is a shade more serious."

The ring of blue circling Arawn's pupils flared, the direction of his gaze flashing first to Cassiel and then to Barbael before returning to Azrael's face. It wasn't an expression that offered admission for it was too neutral, too empty of the taint of recognition beyond the vague. He realized they viewed his presence as a threat, but not precisely why.

Or he was an exceedingly good actor.

"One of my officers was assaulted three days ago," Azrael murmured, carefully watching the demon for signs of comprehension. "The Abyssus torture technique, the unraveling of which produced your signature."

Any traces of question that lingered in Arawn's expression had vanished. The demon had gone deathly still, his breath frozen in his chest as he watched the hand Azrael extended to reproduce the image of ragged black butterflies upon an upturned palm.

"Ah," he said quietly, "that _is_ serious."

If the gravity of the situation had escaped him before, it did no longer. Arawn took a moment to study each of the auras he could feel, gauging the complexities of wariness and righteousness, suspicion and caution in each of them. He was no mage, merely a soldier with a gift for interrogation techniques, but even while he couldn't see them he could _sense_ the bits of energy on the air.

Spells – strong ones – for truth, sight, and protection.

"How did this occur?" He asked, and the angels spared hardly a breath for confusion. He could have meant to foil them via an attempt to mislead or confound, which he was certain they knew. But they also knew that answering his questions could lead them to more answers of their own, which was why none of them so much as blinked.

Azrael's eyes were fixed to his target, weaving magic closely around the demon until he was enclosed in a fine net of truth spells interlocked and threaded with subtle compulsion. Compulsion was a form of mind-control that relied on persuasion and beguilement. All living beings were capable of using it, but only a few could shape it so reliably and efficiently as he could.

He had skill enough to pull the threads fine enough to go undetected by even the most alert and capable mind, to coax or coerce depending on the need, but the truth spells took precedence. Arawn would talk to him, the demon wasn't ornery enough to refuse, but they needed to be sure that the words he spoke weren't rotten.

No one alive could read thoughts, not even Lucifer, whose magical capacity was far greater than Azrael's own. Minds were complex, riddled with countless tiny crevices for storing and hiding, lined with traps for the careless and expansive enough to threaten any trespasser with madness…had such a trespass been possible in the first place. But there were ways to both estimate and influence the contents.

Compulsion tricked the mind into following patterns that, when used correctly, could bring the user information. But the wide variety of truth spells were also tools to peek into the mind by using the rest of the body's physical and neurological responses against it. No matter how accomplished a liar a person was, their body displayed reactions to it; be it in the form of an elevated pulse, a muscle tick, active sweat glands, an increase in swallowing, or even something as slight and difficult to trace as an increase in the creative, inventive portion of the nervous system.

With thousands of tiny threads fastened to nearly every part of Arawn that could possibly display a reaction to lies, deception or anxiety, he opened the breadth of his focus and poured his energy into watching for any semblance of a nervous tick.

He left the explanation to Barbael, who took his open silence as her cue to repeat the report she had sent to her general the night of the assault.

"Our sentries caught a Mazikim behind our lines and brought it in for questioning, whereupon it shot a curse at several present officers before phasing from the premises." As she turned her head to glance at her seated general, her dark ponytail slid over her shoulder, glossy against her leather armor. "Ezekiel _Darine_ alone was struck, but we're guessing that wasn't the ultimate intent."

Silence consumed them, eating away at patience and worry alike as Arawn sat, still and wordless, contemplating. Finally he raised his head and shook it once. "No, that's not possible. Even if it had been a Vhish, Sin Harvest leeches energy even as the actual casting is over. It would require at _least_ two individuals to simply vanish out of a warded area like the Eyrie…or else the caster was Seriu or stronger. And only a limited number of demons possess the skill _and_ knowledge to administer it."

Ashen brow furrowed, he added wryly, "and a desire to wound for no apparent reason. Perhaps to nudge your tempers toward vengeance and spark a real flux of conflict?"

Another moment of silence overtook the aged church, broken only by the sound of several birds quarreling in the trees outside.

Suddenly Azrael moved for the first time since describing Ezekiel's attack, sitting up and unlacing his fingers with a small sound of grim satisfaction. The thin wires of spell and persuasion unwound from the incorporeal cocoon that had formed around the demon's body, falling – their purpose met – to the ground.

Serpentine and liquid, the threadlike ribbons of magic slid back through earth and air to return to their caster's veins. They shed echoes of Arawn's steady pulse rate and cool skin in their wake before slipping through his blood and flesh, coiling deep into the wellspring of his strength where they became dormant pieces of magic in whole with the rest of his violet fire.

As the magic ebbed, he could sense the rest of the room more clearly, enough to notice that each of his three officers notably relaxed.

"You needn't tell me any more," he said softly, "I can read the truth on your tongue. Though you _are _making it easy for me."

The smile at Arawn's mouth was perfectly polite and still managed to hold a slightly lopsided quality. Yet its appearance was brief; in another moment it had vanished into a monotone blankness. "I could provide a list—"

"No, I wouldn't want to jeopardize your position by enabling justifiable charge of treason." Azrael's own smile was wry. "I am in your debt after all."

"And as _I_ said, it was purely self-serving." Arawn gave a delicate shrug. "Perhaps not the best way to gain the attention I sought, but nevertheless…"

"Balael?"

Arawn laughed at the underscore of pity in the angel's voice. His laughter suited his voice, with a musical gaiety that leant itself easily to the Welsh-Irish note he had leant to the humans who had long regarded him as a god. "Much to my own chagrin," he admitted, "not that I'm really actively pursuing her…I'm still recovering from the bayonet she took to me the last time I tried."

The seraph's smile curved with a wicked amusement. "How brutal."

"How Balael," Arawn amended with a heavy, tragic sigh. "But I haven't yet given up all hope."

Shaking his ashen head, the demon rose from his seat and held out an arm to the seraph across the aisle. Azrael stood and took the offered arm, gripping steadily. "I wish you luck," he said honestly, "she could use a little warmth in her life."

"Indeed," Arawn agreed. "About that list—give me a day or two to assemble the details and I'll have it in the hand of your lieutenants," he nodded to Barbael and Cassiel each in turn, "if that's acceptable?"

"Once again, you have my gratitude," Azrael mused, but Arawn waved the thanks away.

"As you well know, not all of us are mongerers for war and blood." He smiled thinly, and there was a weariness there that Azrael knew was echoed in his own face every time he thought about the years to come. "I bid you well."

"And I you," the seraph replied as the demon turned and began to make his way down the aisle toward the church's old iron-barred doors.

But while he offered farewell, he felt himself falter under the weight of yet another snarl in what seemed one massive knot of ever more complex and complicated twists and turns. For every part of him that was glad that Arawn had not been guilty, there were at least two parts that longed for the simplicity there would have been if the Soldier had been.

At least then they would have gotten to the bottom of _something._

* * *

Lilith awoke from her nap to pain streaking through her abdomen. It was more than a simple ache, more than a pulled muscle or a liver struck by a tiny foot; it throbbed, tearing at her insides as though trying to make her stomach rip open from deep inside.

Scared half-witless, she rose carefully and tearfully from the bed, trying to avoid the pain that coursed in her belly with every harsh movement and wishing that Azrael had completed his visitations early. Bent almost double, she staggered through the rooms of the suite to the main door and shoved it open, not caring whether she had an arranged escort or not. She had to get to Pandora. If something was wrong…

She stamped out the flicker of fear for her unborn baby. Negativity was not an option, and neither was miscarriage. One hand clutching the swell of her stomach and the other pressed to the nearest wall for support when the pain bled into and incapacitated her muscle structure, she made her way slowly to the medical ward and prayed Pandora was home.

Maybe it was better Azrael wasn't there. She didn't think she could bear the devastation he would show had he discovered she may have lost their child.

Her fist landed heavy upon the office door, the only knock she could manage despite its rudeness. When Pandora answered, looking both bewildered and annoyed, she nearly cried with relief at the sight of her disheveled ruby hair.

"What—_oh…_!"

She wasn't sure how the medic managed to get her on the exam table because as soon as she crossed the threshold into the room her eyes rolled back into her head and she lost all sense of where and what she was. When the blackness cleared, she was lying cushioned on the table with pillows, a needle in the tender bend of one elbow and the pain had dissipated into a normal pregnancy ache.

Pandora extracted the needle from the vein in her arm and passed a finger over the open puncture, sealing it effectively with a tiny pulse of magic. Whatever the drug was, it had made her entire arm tingly and warm, which – while odd – wasn't necessarily an unpleasant sensation.

"Did I black out?" Lilith was surprised to hear that her voice didn't slur. She had assumed the drug had been a painkiller and painkillers always stalled her speech and made her woozy.

"Yes, and you scared the pee out of me," the ruby-haired demon woman said briskly. "I was afraid I'd have to summon your angel and face the wrath-filled Mercy of God when I told him you'd both died. Thank the baby Jesus it was just the pain talking and not something serious."

Just now noticing that her shirt was bunched beneath her too-tight bra and Pandora's hand was resting against her bared belly, she lifted her head to watch the medic's strawberry red fire seep beneath her skin for another look into her body. The other woman's silvery-gray eyes glazed over, a clear indication that she was seeing something other than her office and the patient inside it.

A faint pressure at the base of her spine released, one Lilith hadn't even noticed had existed until it was gone, and left her feeling more relaxed physically than she'd felt in days.

"Well, everything seems fine," Pandora announced, blinking her eyes clear and rolling her patient's loose cotton blouse back down over her swollen stomach. "Does it still hurt?"

Lilith swallowed her sigh and the relief that came with it, shaking her head. The pain had gone, but she still wouldn't have skipped a checkup for all anything. Sitting up on the edge of the exam table, she braced her hands against the marble slab and peered up at the medic. "Why did I faint?" she asked, "the pain wasn't that bad. Well, it was bad…but not bad enough to knock me out."

Pandora took her chair and jotted some notes in what she had taken to dubbing Lilith's "chart." Due to the unusual nature of the pregnancy, taking down information to refer back to had seemed wise, and was always wise when facing the unknown according to Azrael.

"Pain-streaks happen, some worse than others," she said. "I would guesstimate that this was the fault of developing magic—which can be a little raw in an uncontrolled, developing body. As to the fainting, it could be that the clash of my magic to the baby's might have inspired a small surge to your nervous system."

Setting down the pad of notes, the medic added, "Since this hasn't happened before, I can only conclude that this store of magic just began to develop in the past few days since your last visit. Because you've been virtually surrounded by Azrael's magic, it makes sense that the baby's grown accustomed to its father's aura, but introduction to a new one caused an instinctive reaction. I would even say it might have been trying to protect you."

Pandora's smile was reassuring, imbibing everything that was calm, soothing and sure. "In any case, I doubt it could have caused you any harm. You're whole and well."

Relief far outweighed her excitement at the prospect of her child inheriting its father's magic. She sighed, letting go of some trace of inner fear that had only come with an explanation. After all, Pandora would be the first to admit she didn't have an answer as to why her patient had suddenly undergone a self-abortion. "Good," she smiled, "I was afraid I was having a complication or something."

Pandora caught the inflection in her patient's voice. She really _had_ been afraid; stricken with fear, as though she had a reason to be. "Why do you say that?"

Shrugging, the girl answered briefly, "a friend of mine miscarried. She didn't mention pain but—" she shrugged one shoulder again. "It was the first thing that came to mind."

"Ah, understandable," Pandora nodded, "but I assure you, this baby is far too healthy to be a worry."

Lilith's smile softened as she touched a palm to the firm expanse of her stomach and whispered, "Good."

Pandora scoured the needle clean with her magic and turned to tuck it away, which reminded the patient that her arm was still a little tingly. "What was that you gave me?" she asked, curiously flexing the fingers of her left hand.

"A solution of ginger and Saint John's Wort," the medic answered, holding up a small half-empty glass vial of liquid that was yellow against Pandora's striped cream blouse. "A mild pain suppressor, and then—" she fished for another vial, this time of a deep, clotted green, "chamomile, poppy and rosemary as a relaxant for the baby."

"It's…interesting."

"Tingly?" Pandora's tone was knowing and mild.

"A little bit," Lilith admitted.

The medic smiled. "That's normal. I'll teach you all about it when you start working with me, everything from sedatives to poisons and all that's in between. And then some more," she winked one silver eye and Lilith grinned. "Now, do you think you can make it back? You should probably get some more rest if you can, and food. An infant magician is bound to suck up a crap-ton of energy."

While certainly not all that knowledgeable about magic and how it developed, Lilith had spent enough time near Azrael while he worked magic to feel Pandora's was a factual statement. "I believe it," she agreed with a humorously grim note.

With a minor struggle to maneuver the ungainly set of her weight from the table, she got to her feet and adjusted the waistband of her fleecy shorts. It was a constant struggle to be comfortable, regardless of how picky about flesh-flashing she had become since the pregnancy had started to show. She had been modest before, but hormones had been tossing her self-esteem about like a cat with a ball of yarn.

The shorts had been the closest thing she could pull on before settling for a nap after her warm bath, but not what she would have first chosen to run around Hell in.

When she looked up, grudgingly satisfied that the soft elastic wasn't cutting into somewhere she didn't want it, she noticed that Pandora was regarding her with something akin to pity.

"What?" The brunette looked down at herself, eyeing the silly pink and black cloth patterned with childish hearts and grimacing. "They're comfortable…"

Pandora laughed. "Not that," she corrected, crossing the floor to wrap the other woman in a warm hug. The medic smelled of chamomile and peppermint tea, a soothing, homey kind of combination that brought a smile to Lilith's mouth. "This hasn't been easy on you—this pregnancy. I think you should know that you've been a trooper." Drawing back, she laid her silvery eyes on the girl's face and smiled back at her. "Especially for someone so afraid of childbirth."

Lilith shrugged, embarrassed by the praise more than the errant fondness in her immortal friend. "Just going with what life throws at me."

Pandora's snort of amusement came delicately. "_Throws._ Such an illustration of vigor." Her patient blushed. "Alrighty then. I'll order some food and have it sent to the suite. You go lie down."

"Because I haven't been doing any of that lately," Lilith grumbled, to which Pandora responded with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

"Just think: you're at month seven now. Only two more to go!"

As much as the idea of giving birth still creeped her out, Lilith had to admit the prospect of being almost done with the ordeal of pregnancy made something inside her light up with relief. To be able to bend over again; what a concept. It simply couldn't come soon enough!

* * *

The baby seemed to be in an antsy mood, for she hadn't made it down even one whole section of hallway before it began pummeling her organs with tiny hands and feet.

Lilith paused above a shallow stairwell to lean her shoulders against the wall, one hand flat to the swell of her stomach. The stone was cool and helped her realign the kinks in her achy back while she waited for its little tantrum to ease. There was still a slight pain, but it was nothing compared with what she had woken to, and since she knew traces of pain were normal, she saved her energy for patience instead of panic.

Two more months of this might be the end of her, but at least she would have something to show for it.

She edged her way down the steps and into the wide corridor which joined the living quarters with the public areas. It always seemed to be empty, which was why she hadn't thought to check for occupancy before half-waddling into the open and why she suffered a sharp moment of terror when she realized that there was someone else there. A dark humanoid shape stationed at a narrow window overlooking the wastes.

Upon catching the sight of his messy silver hair, she relaxed and greeted Beelzebub when he turned toward her.

"Howdy." The demon prince crossed the floor with a series of muted clicks attributed to the pointed heels of his boots, approaching to regard her with a pitying smile. A smile which she thought was only in part for her state of encumberment, since he granted her flannel shorts a lingering glance. "Another check-up?"

She sighed and corrected, "An unexpected one."

His golden eyes settled on her stomach. "You all right?"

"Fine," she assured him.

"That's good. I wouldn't like to see—that's good."

She knew what he was going to say even before he cut his sentiment in half: he wouldn't want to see Azrael's face if she _wasn't_ all right. It wasn't something he needed to verbalize. She had witnessed enough of her guardian's capacity for rage on account of her safety to understand exactly what he meant. Azrael was lovely even in anger, but there was something in his temper that still managed to scare her. She didn't blame the demon one bit for being grateful to avoid it.

After a moment's pause, Beelzebub offered his arm. It was bare, as he wore nothing beneath the clingy sleeveless shirt, meshless, and encircled with several metal rings that clinked gently with every movement. "C'mon, I'll walk you back."

Even as she took the offered arm she mused politely, "you don't have to do that."

Secretly, though, she was grateful for the extra support. Her knees felt shivery and her experience told her that when her knees were that tired, collapse was a possibility and not one she wanted to experience while seven months pregnant. She would probably have fared just as well using the wall, but with a walking stability of an immortal escort she would be back in bed a lot faster.

"Pfft," Beelzebub waved her consideration away with a hand adorned with nails painted a rich indigo to match his designer jeans. "Yes I do."

"But if you have things to do—"

He chuckled. "Shut it. It's not like it'll take a week to get you home."

She knew better than to refuse. He wasn't exactly a friend – at least not with quite the warmth the description implied – but he was trustworthy and a proven enough ally that she felt no qualms about really letting her weight settle into his arm. She doubted he could feel it like a human would, anyway.

They had almost made it to the corner that led into the mostly unused ambassadors' dwelling quarters when she felt it.

At first she ignored the new pain, thinking it was just some new variation of regular pregnancy pains. It lacked the sharpness of the bad one from before but felt just as urgent, perhaps even more so; dull, penetrating and forceful. But it faded into what seemed like the normal ache of battered insides and she braved another two steps forward.

When it came back, it knocked the breath from her lungs.

Pressure, pain, and a low, convulsive throb echoing deep in her abdomen caused her hand to clutch at the slope between belly and thighs, her grip upon Beelzebub's arm tightening enough to whiten his skin more than she had thought possible.

"What's wrong?" His voice was tight with a severity she recognized as the tiniest hint of fear.

"Nothing," she said, determined to straighten her spine and not hunch like an old woman. "It's just fussing—"

Another convulsion struck her and this time she could feel something tear, not in a way that was bad or painful (not that she really understood it) but in a way that was functional, even necessary. She could feel wetness between her thighs and trickling down the inside of one leg.

"Oh_ shit,_" Beelzebub's tone held both relief and alarm. Without another word he'd tucked his arms beneath her knees and upper back, lifting her into a loose, flexible position that sent a shock of pressure through her abdomen. And then the walls were blurring with his speed as he carried her back to Pandora's.

She hung on to his shoulders, somehow recognizing the sense of urgency she felt in him, but the rest of her was quiescent, blinded by confusion and perplexity. This couldn't be happening…it was too soon.

Then there was another jolt of pain and she dug her nails into Beelzebub's back, her teeth gritted against a cry and the light from Pandora's office stinging her eyes with tears.

* * *

"If he doesn't want Purgatory…"

"But he does," Balberith asserted, "they all do."

Azrael's smile lacked in everything pleasant. "Not every soul strives for whatever mysteries might be offered from above. And who's to say they're wrong?" He could see the quiet flare of surprise in Balberith's watchful eyes, knowing without truly seeing that there was understanding and empathy there also.

An overbearing sense of mental exhaustion was the source of his verbal bitterness. As familiar as he was with splitting himself into fragments in order to get seemingly impossible amounts of work done, he still felt fatigued by the pressures that demanded his attention. Between encouraging and reassuring his soldiers, creating and refreshing strategies that might or might not be needed, researching fruitlessly for information regarding his ward and coming baby, and seeing to his visitations he wasn't sure how long he would be able to keep from bursting at the seams.

Seeing to the dead wasn't something he had to do every passing day, but after two days of lingering in the earth's realm as nothing more than vaporous shadows, souls tended to have negative affects on their surroundings. These affects were often the causes of what people called preternatural activity – that of ghosts.

He was weary of secrets and weary of the worries of warfare, poisoned by dark memories from other times and other wars made all the worse by the steady trickle of dying humans crossing his path. Exhaustion made him both wry and bitter.

The ways of the world was not painted in shades of black and white; it hadn't been created that way. Some angels would have had humans believe that the ways of Heaven were something every soul should ascribe to reach, but he had always held the opinion that the same road was not meant for everyone. He had his reasons for feeling this way, as his own path had taken him far from the common mold.

Balberith conceded with a shallow nod. "Point taken," he said, inspecting the tip of his pen before shaving away a tiny sliver of its tip to sharpen the writing point. "But Minos has written this one should get the chance."

The sigh came unbidden to Azrael's mouth, passing a hand over his face as he considered a compromise. Balberith took his job seriously and orders he got from Minos in regards to judgment were law as far as he was concerned, that was all well and good except for those rare cases when Azrael didn't agree with the decisions.

Finally he offered, "what if we gave him a trial period? We can pull him out after some time and reassess—"

The sound of running feet wasn't something that entered the records chambers often, and certainly never with the vehement pounding of a full-on sprint. Theirs were not the only heads that turned toward the sloping, decorative entryway, curious and bemused, as over half the scribes and their staff paused at their work and stared as a dark-clothed figure darted into their midst.

The angel caught Beelzebub's eye as he slowed to a trot and leaned over Balberith's desk to shield the movement of his lips from the curious eyes of the scribes and murmured hoarsely, "Lilith—she's in labor."

Azrael's face went white. For a moment he merely stood, his weariness rolling into shock and slowly into an awful fear, then his bleached lilac eyes flickered to Balberith, polite requests and diplomacies quarreling with the worry on his tongue.

"Well _go!"_ the scribe cried, incredulous behind a vibrant purple fringe of bangs.

The sound of Balberith's voice seemed to act like a trigger, snapping something that had been coiled so tightly inside the angel's brain that it reacted with the explosive power of a revolver. Azrael spared barely enough time to shoot Balberith a nod of gratitude before his body blurred with the momentum of pure immortal speed, Beelzebub quick on his heels, the halls of stone a dim tunnel of black and golden light that symbolized far too great a distance between him and where he needed to be.

"She's only seven months along—it's too early."

"I know," Beelzebub's words came stiffly, hindered by the effort it took him to keep up with his friend. Being older and by creation more powerful than he was, Azrael's stress only increased his capacity, causing him to access more speed than he would normally have used. "But some things a body doesn't lie about. Water breaking, for example."

They raced up the spiraling double-flight of steps that was part of the quickest back-route to the medical wing, two dark shadows streaked with silver and pale gold.

Azrael didn't pause to inquire as to why Beelzebub hung back from Pandora's door to wait in the hall. He did, however, look back over his shoulder to give the other man a worn half-smile. "Thank you," he said softly.

"No worries," was the demon's reply, accompanied by a harsh shooing gesture made with anxious hands.

He turned to enter the office, bypassing the waiting room with quick, long strides to the door. A gentle rap with his knuckles announced him, but he didn't bother to wait for admittance before wrenching back the wooden barrier and stepping over the threshold he could feel had been recently warded against any unwanted power entering or escaping. The scent of blood met his nose, sending a bolt of panic to streak down his spine.

Upon entry he took note of the faintly dimmed quality of the light. The white ceiling glass had been made to soften in intensity to enhance relaxation and soothing, rose wax candles infused with vanilla had been lit to add both additional light and a calming energy to the sterile room. The lengthy shadows draped gently across the examination table, which had been reshaped to form a short, reclining couch.

Upon the couch lay Lilith.

White and drawn with pain, her face rested against one of several sizable cushions positioned at her back and neck to prop her into a half-seated position, her knees bent at a shallow angle, bare feet resting against the padded edge of what had been the table. The knot of her hair had come partly undone, striping her shoulders with dark streaks that made her cheeks look even more pale and wan.

He went to her, cold with fear when her eyes remained tightly closed, even when he came close enough to feel the incredible, searing heat that radiated from her flesh. His fingers brushed the slope of her cheekbone, eyes taking in the sight of a woman who suddenly seemed so very fragile.

The gauzy cotton gown Pandora had garbed her in clung to sweat-dampened skin and was stained crimson at the place where her thighs joined.

It didn't matter how far medical knowledge had advanced in the human world, nor the dramatic positive change in the numbers of women and infants who made it through childbirth unharmed. His mind much more readily recalled the earlier days of human conception, filled with women who had bled to death trying to bring a baby into the world. When he saw his beloved bloodied and pale, he couldn't help but remember.

"Pandora!" he cried, unable to swallow his alarm.

The medic was at his side in an instant, her hand both reassuring and restraining upon his arm, a vial of red fluid in the other. "She's all right," Pandora told him softly, "I have her resting for now. She may need as much energy as she can get later."

"But the blood—"

"Perfectly normal." Pandora manufactured a chair from the floor and wall of the office, stuffing it with yet more cushions and pushed him gently into it. "Having a baby is bloody business. And before you ask," she added as he opened his mouth to make another inquiry, "her being early isn't as strange as it seems."

She swirled the vial of Lilith's blood, watching the pattern of the streaking it left upon the treated glass. The tiny red needle-mark in the girl's forearm said from where it had come. "Our kind mature at a much faster rate than humans do, and after the magic-shock it gave her earlier today it seems that in this particular instance it's taking after you and finished developing early."

His eyes widened. "A _shock?_"

Pandora nodded. "It didn't hurt her. I think the baby was trying to protect her from all my spells, probably an overreaction from that development." Her smile was affectionate. "Taking after you yet again, it seems."

Reaching for the curve of Lilith's belly he laid his hand lightly there to check his safety walls, none of which had been breached, and felt the magic inside the momentarily pensive infant rest as nothing more than a dormant spark of flame. When he looked, he could see the imprints of an hours-old surge of protective shielding which had meant to keep Lilith safe from the walls of Pandora's magic.

He was both startled and proud to realize that he needn't have feared his child would cause its mother harm. The baby had somehow inherited its father's powerful sense of self-presence.

He could feel the smile in Pandora's voice as she told him warmly, "see? They're both just fine."

Something inside him loosened, as though the vicious knot of worry lodged in his chest had unwound just the tiniest fraction of an inch. But it didn't unravel entirely. His child had not murdered her, but while the baby remained inside her, there was risk; not merely for magical reasons, but for purely physical ones.

If Lilith's partially-immortal body couldn't cope with the strain of childbirth – which was possible – she could lose enough blood to send her into shock and eventual death. However, he sincerely doubted the chance of this happening. Pandora was second only to Raphael when it came to healing. When it came to midwifery, there was no one he trusted more.

His eyes found a resting place upon Lilith's face, soft and slack inside a light nap, her eyelashes black against the curve of her cheek. "She was frightened?" he asked softly.

"A little," Pandora admitted, "more because of the timing than any pain. She was worried about miscarriage."

He smiled grimly. "And her terror of childbirth, no doubt."

"Yes, well, that was the other reason for giving her the sedative."

Gently he let his palm slide from his lover's stomach to settle against the armrest added for both the comfort and inevitable death-grip of a woman in labor. His eyes rose from the line of Lilith's chalk-pale cheek to that of Pandora's rosewater complexion. "Tell me truly," he implored her, so quietly that the question was little more than a breath, "is there reason for concern?"

Pandora's shadow flickered in the candlelight, causing the waves of vanilla scent to waver as she set the vial into a rack filled with several others empty of any contents. The glass made a shallow clink against the ceramic holder, a sound that seemed oddly loud in the quiet room. She showed no outward signs of concern, but when she turned to look him in the eye her lips were thinned with resignation.

"There's always a chance something goes wrong." Leaning her hips back against the counter, she crossed her arms over her chest and continued, "but from what I can tell, there's no reason to worry. The baby's facing the right way, there's no problem with the umbilical cord, and everything seems in good order. But she is a little narrow in the hips."

Azrael's eyes flickered to Lilith and the place where light blanket and gown concealed her abdomen. "She is," he agreed. "But that isn't a hindrance for human women, with surgery. Should it be for her?"

Pandora shrugged. "Theoretically, no. But I don't know how much magical strength this baby has, or how it'll react to my taking a scalpel to its mother."

He had no choice but to concede her point. "True," he murmured, eyeing the swell of Lilith's stomach warily, "perhaps I'll be able to calm any outbursts."

"Let's hope so if it comes to that," Pandora agreed, then pushed herself away from the table to approach Lilith's side. Taking gentle hold of the girl's wrist, she took her pulse before putting on a quiet smile. "Time for the _real _contractions, now."

At that precise moment Lilith's eyes flickered – once, then twice before opening. Her eyelids slid back with the slow, halting edge of sleepy confusion. Her head tilted to look at him, but her welcoming smile was bit in two by a grimace of discomfort and dislike. "Ugh," she swiped absently at the hair draped across her face. "I feel like a beached whale."

Valiantly, Azrael smoothed his amusement with lips pressed firmly together. Pandora, while sympathetic in the tone of her mother-hen clucking, didn't work to hide hers. With a quiet peal of laughter she said, "Let's have you sit up, here…"

With their help to keep her balanced, Lilith forced her back and side to part with the cushions, allowing the medic to prop her correctly atop the couch. One hand resting against the crown of the girl's stomach, Pandora moved Lilith's feet to a pair of special stirrups meant to both support and fortify her legs.

While she was still covered, Lilith's cheeks flushed with the tiniest bit of embarrassment. But it wasn't _just_ discomfort.

As Azrael watcher her, he traced the rapid pace of her breath. Her eyes widened with a fear she tried to conceal. The hands she braced upon slim, padded armrests were clenched tight around the metal frame, knuckles whitened with the strain of her grip.

He reached for her, gently peeling her fingers from the metal until he could slip his hand beneath her own. She started, looking at him with green eyes that were over-bright. Scared and shaky, she touched something inside his heart that despaired to see her so. His lips brushed her fingers, his eyes conveying a flurry of everything from sympathy to hope to pain and apology, and when she took a single deep, controlled breath in reply, he knew she had listened even without his having to speak.

The convulsion was tangible; he felt it ripple along the length of her arm from a point inside her stomach, a shudder of motion from muscles that had no other intended purpose. But Lilith showed no sign of having noticed.

Empty vial in hand Pandora approached to touch her other shoulder. "I'm going to remove most of the numbing serum now," she explained, gesturing to the reddened needle-mark in the bend of Lilith's arm. "You need to be able to feel the contractions. You'll feel pain too, but that's to be expected."

Lilith's pale face seemed to go even whiter. "Couldn't I have an epidural or…whatever they use for birth-meds?"

Pandora's sympathy didn't affect the firmness in her voice when she told her patient, "no, hon. A spinal tap could do more harm than good. Any other drugs could be just as bad—we don't know. It's better to guess on the safe side." She adjusted Lilith's arm so it lay across the armrest, setting the vial just beneath the injection mark. "Most women have a stronger pain tolerance than they think they do, anyway."

"Not me," Lilith whispered. She turned her face away from Pandora as a thin stream of clear fluid began to trickle into the vial.

"That's why I'm here," Azrael squeezed her hand reassuringly. "I can't deliver for you, but I can help front some of the pain and offer a hand to break as many times as you need to."

She almost managed a laugh before the next contraction began. Her body went completely rigid; her breath came in terse gasps through her teeth and her fingernails biting into the back of his wrist. He could feel the muscles in her back and shoulders clench as clearly as he could see her teeth leaving whitening imprints in her lower lip.

The convulsion ebbed and suddenly she began to shake her head, back and forth with the compulsive repetition of someone frightened beyond their wits. "I can't do this," she choked, her words hobbled by a dry sob. "I _can't—_"

"Yes you can." He touched her cheek, wiping away a tear that had escaped, glistening against her skin. "Women have been having children for centuries, and you are no different. You're stronger than you think. Besides, you have the best midwife there ever was to help you."

Pandora dismissed his compliment with a little mocking snort and a tiny bow as she wiped the bend of Lilith's arm clean and turned to stow the vial of used serum away.

Lilith's green eyes came to rest on his face, betraying an awful conflict of hope and disbelief. Then she whimpered, her spine stiffening as another contraction seized her insides and held, eyes that had been open just seconds ago closed tightly with an agony he would never understand.

It was a pain bad enough to evaporate any sound from her throat. More than she deserved to take. He was startled by how much it unnerved him; he had witnessed women in delivery many times and had never found it so stressful. That was probably because none of those women had been giving birth to _his_ child. A man's fate was to worry himself sick in a birthing chamber, he was no different. But that didn't mean he couldn't be of help.

He opened a small channel in his palm, connecting his sensory receptors to her via a few knots of magical wiring until he could feel the brunt of her pain gnawing at his own nerves instead.

He blocked that part of himself away before he could feel the rending scream in his abdomen, dulling the acknowledgement of pain and its implications away from his brain so he could focus on the woman gripping his hand for all she was worth.

"Ok," Pandora soothed, working on a clean apron and tucking a wrapped pair of gloves sewn of a soft oiled cloth into the pocket as she positioned herself at the foot of the couch. "It's ok, honey." She folded up the end of the blanket and placed one steady hand upon each of Lilith's knees. "Let your knees fall open just a bit more—that's it. You're doing just fine."

The girl's head fell back against her pillow, sweat-streaked, her brow furrowed with pain and distress. "How much longer?"

Calm as could be, Pandora replied, "soon, now. You're at eight centimeters now, two more and I'll have you push."

Lilith made a quiet sound of dislike and informed the angel beside her, "I could really resent you for this right about now."

"I can understand that," he answered softly, adjusting his grip to filter yet more of her pain through his system.

She laughed, shortly and tightly. "Too bad I don't."

He leant forward to press a kiss to her damp forehead. "I'm glad."

"Yeah, I…oh—" The contraction split her voice in half with a subdued squeak, her hand clutching at him, her jaw clenching underneath his empty palm.

"And…that's it!" Pandora undid the wrapping which kept her gloves sterile and slid the oiled garments over her hands. "Ready to push?"

Lilith shook her dark head, but when her lips parted she uttered a halting, "yes." She lifted her head from the pillow and met the medic's calm silver eyes.

"On three, then. One, two, three, push!"

Azrael felt the bones in his hand creak, the small joints contorting beneath the pressure of her grip as every muscle in her body strained with effort. He dug his magic more deeply into her hand, pulling the pain from her veins until it washed his blood hot with the sting of it. That single moment seemed as long as a lifetime, stretching toward a forever contained inside a fragment of several minutes.

Though she shuddered and cried and tears wet her cheeks and chin, Lilith followed Pandora's chanting counts, her heart pounding so quickly that he feared it might burst. When it felt like neither of them could last any longer, she gave a final, awful cry of determination and tearing anguish and slumped back into the pillows, chest heaving.

For a split second he was seized by a sharp fear that something had gone wrong, but the echoes of pain throbbing in his bones quickly began to wane. As Pandora fussed with something between Lilith's feet, he laid his cheek against the girl's dark hair and breathed with her. "My brave girl," he praised, "my brave, brave darling…"

Her eyes flickered open, a little hazy, but clear from the dark clutch of pain. "Is it over?" she mumbled, uncertain and clearly wearied.

"Yes," he smiled at her, conveying all his pride and happiness with just that single word. She smiled back at him, and despite how tired and ragged she might have been, it seemed to him that no star in existence was as beautifully radiant as she was.

They simply looked at each other, sharing without words a sense of fulfillment and connection that neither of them would have been able to describe. Even tied together at the hips they couldn't have been closer.

Their reverie was broken by Pandora holding out a small cotton-wrapped bundle for Lilith to take. "Congratulations," the medic told her, her voice soft with a gentle reverence. "A boy."

He watched the revelation dawn across Lilith's face as she lifted hesitant arms for the baby Pandora tucked against her chest, her eyes wide with wonder and warmth that spread from her like a halo. As she looked down at the little sleeping face, the fingers of one tiny hand loosely clutching the edge of the wrapping, she very nearly glowed.

Shifting so that he was propped against the back of the couch, he took in the sight of his newborn son in the arms of the woman who had borne him, and wondered what on earth he had done to deserve something so utterly wonderful.

"What will we name him?"

She glanced up at him, her face soft with her smiles and the inescapable contentedness of overcoming another obstacle. Looking back down at the tiny boy cradled against her chest she murmured, "I always liked _Cillian_…"

His fingertips brushed the fine dark hair, little more than down, that peeked from beneath the baby's blankets. "Hello, Cillian," he crooned, "did you know that your mother is the bravest woman there ever was?"

Lilith laughed and lifted her face to look at Pandora, who was smiling at the little family as she wiped down her apron. "What do you think?" she asked the medic.

But Pandora didn't answer right away. When she did, the sound of her voice was lifted with a melody that toned her words with silver. "As long foretold, upon that morn there was a blessed messiah born."

A subtle chill trickled down the length of Lilith's spine; a strange and altogether unreasonable response to have to several bars of a song she knew. "Wexford carol?" she identified, "but what does a Christmas carol have to do with anything?" Pandora said nothing, merely looked at Azrael in a way that was expectant and slightly sad. Lilith followed her gaze just in time to see the angel's smile slip, and then fade altogether as he stared down at the baby in her arms.

"Azrael?" Her voice trembled even to her own ears.

"Of course," he murmured, violet eyes brazing with sudden comprehension. "_Yours is not the true Messiah. _He_ will be born of impossible blood. _Why didn't I see it before?"

"Maybe because you weren't looking for it," Pandora said with a shrug. "But a child born to an angel and a human is certainly no less than impossible—or was."

Lilith's cheeks lost the color they had slowly been regaining. "Are you saying that our baby is…" Azrael's eyes met her own and she knew without an answer that her assumption was correct. Her baby was the equivalent of what Christ had thought himself to be. "No way," she insisted, "_no way_ can that be true."

"It's true," he told her, his face lined with the edges of deepest thought. And even as she took a half-panicked breath she acknowledged the calming lilt he stitched into the inflection.

"But it can't—" Feeling hopeless, she cast her eyes on Pandora, who had settled into her chair to clean her gloves of blood.

Pandora gave her a quiet smile, one that was both pitying and understanding. "It's not a bad thing," she said, tucking her ruby hair behind an ear. "It's actually a very good thing. It's just that…strictly speaking; hell isn't the safest place for a Messiah to grow up. Nor is it all that safe for him to be around his real parents."

Lilith could feel Azrael's aura of happiness crumble as Pandora's words sunk in. She could feel his shoulders slump and his heart fall almost as surely as she felt her own mirror it, opening up to a gaping hole of unthinkable despair founded by a single truth.

They couldn't raise their own son.

* * *

**Greetings, readers!**

**To you goes my sincerest apologies and immeasurable gratitude. I'm sorry it took me so long to get this chapter up, I've been planning the arrival of this baby for almost four years now, and I had some trouble getting it down without feeling like I wasn't doing my thoughts justice.**

**Thank you so much for your patience and for being amazing readers. Every one of you means the world to me.**

**On to the chapter: some additions to puzzles, some revelations, some of the authoress trying not to screw up childbirth too much (especially since it's something that Lilith and I share a fear of), and a new unhappy part. I'll bet I'm going to get a lot of angry reviews for that. I'm sorry! There are reasons More to come in the next chapter, it was just so long by this point that I felt a need to stop there. More explanation IS coming!**

**If you haven't heard it, I recommend looking up a version of "Wexford Carol." I know it's a Christmas song, but it has been crucial in my getting this chapter out of my head and the…tone, I guess, of what "Messiah" in this world stands for, even though we don't know a lot about it yet.**

**I'm pretty wiped from school/work and trying to crank the last of this chapter out so I could update, so I'm going to call this spiel to an end.**

**As always, I want to ask you for reviews because they add so much to my enthusiasm for this story. It's impossible for me to articulate what it means to hear from those of you that follow my work so faithfully.**

**Thank you all!**

**Until next time.**


	17. Much Like Falling

**Chapter 17**  
Much Like Falling

Recommended Listening: "Skellig" by Loreena McKinnett,  
"Blinding" by Florence and the Machine and "Bless the Child" by Nightwish

* * *

It was a small wonder to look down at the tiny body swathed in soft cotton flannel and know – truly _know_ – that it belonged to her.

Something about the head, hardly bigger than a sizeable grapefruit, nestled upon her breast where her nightgown surrendered to skin was purely magical. The way the little boy breathed softly in and out, his heartbeat a faint flutter against her chest, body heavy with sleep, eyes closed and mouth slightly open, touched her in ways that she never would have imagined possible.

Her baby: two words she never thought she would string together. Yet now that she had, it seemed like she had never worried at all, not about her clumsiness with children, not about childbirth, not about mothering, not about having enough love for the tiny boy she held both gently and a little desperately.

There was a great sense of accomplishment and relief that came from the comprehension that her seven months of pregnancy were over. A sizeable chunk of that came from the ease with which she could move – and even breathe – now that the ordeal was done, but most of it came from the infant asleep in her arms. The reward for all the discomfort and nausea and sleepless nights drew her affection like a magnet, pulling it from her so effectively and certainly that it felt a little like bliss.

Every few moments she would endure a spell of dizzying bewilderment during which she found herself questioning if what she had witnessed and experienced was real, or whether she was having an especially vivid dream.

Sometimes when these moments hit her she would touch her sleeping baby's cheek and feel such wondrous awe that it seemed to spill from her skin and cause the whole room to glow. Other times she would remember the misfortune that had come perched on her baby's shoulder, and she would wonder whether or not to cry.

Lilith found that she didn't want to think about the revelation that her son was a Messiah, and all the "ifs," "buts," and "maybes" this revelation towed in its wake. She didn't want to, but she would. Being a mother put a new importance on her responsibilities, and she knew that it would be selfish of her to avoid the truth simply because she didn't like it. That wouldn't be fair to the baby. It would be fair to anyone.

But it did seem as though a lot of bad things kept happening to her and Azrael. And she couldn't help feeling a little twinge of resentment for the God supposedly so supportive of their being together. If they were meant to be partners and parents (of a Messiah, no less!), why did so much keep standing in their way?

Sometimes she couldn't quite swallow her resentment all the way.

She looked up when Azrael nudged his way in through the hall door, a steaming mug cupped in each hand. Guilt coiled about her stomach when she took in the slightly haggard edge to his fine features, knowing that the blame for the majority of it rested on her. She was not proud of the fit she had thrown after the first disbelieving moments of silence in which she had realized the meaning of Pandora's cautionary words.

Devastated by the idea that after all her work and hope and effort she wouldn't be able to raise her own baby, she had (quite embarrassingly) burst into tears and half-screamed her refusal to accept the travesty of safety. Where could be safer for Cillian than with his mother?

It had taken a mild sedative and much soothing from Azrael's hands and voice to calm her, but ultimately it had been the baby's first cries that had ended her unseemly, overblown tantrum. The newborn boy, alarmed by the noise of his mother's screeching, had screwed up his face and began to bawl, but not with nearly the exuberance expected of a normal baby. His cries were quiet, more protest than fury or frightened, unstructured need. Yet the sound had drawn Lilith up short, shocking her into silence.

Whether it was the sight of the altogether quite helpless newborn settle into his father's arms as his mother stared, content now that there was quiet, or some other internal epiphany which firmed her resolve, she couldn't be sure. Lilith had swallowed whatever remained of her emotional upheaval in favor softly requesting to be told the facts and reasons behind the situation whenever possible.

But the stark anguish behind her initial outburst had left a mark on Azrael. She could see it in his face as he kneed the door shut and padded across the floor to the bed where she curled with their baby held against her chest. It was a wary unease, guilt and pure unhappiness combined to gray his eyes and harden the line of his jaw.

And she couldn't stand it.

"Sorry about earlier," she murmured as he carefully sat so as not to jostle the bed and spare her still sore body any pain. "I shouldn't have lost it like that…it's not as if you like this any more than I do."

His expression remained wan and unhappy, but something inside his eyes softened and he lightly shook his head. "You don't have to be sorry. Pandora could have been more tactful."

"So that was acceptable for a new mother still raging with hormones?" She added, hoping it might wrestle a smile from him. She wasn't disappointed either, as the corners of his mouth lifted just the slightest bit.

"I should think so," he agreed, setting one of the mugs down on the bedside table. The other he held out for her to take. "Something for the pain," he explained when she sniffed at it cautiously, "I know you don't like tea, but it works best with the medicine."

She adjusted Cillian's weight, indicating with a pointed expression of pleading that it would be wonderful if he took the baby, and traded him for the mug.

Despite the slight awkwardness of the switch, Cillian's sleep remained sound and deep. He didn't even so much as fuss when Azrael slipped a hand beneath his head and shifted to cradle the little body in gentle arms.

At first she had worried about Cillian's unusual calmness and lack of crying, but neither Azrael nor Pandora had seemed surprised since apparently immortal children generally possessed a much more accepting and eloquent nature. Something she hoped would stick around the next time he woke up hungry or cold in the middle of the night, because she didn't know how a newborn baby was going to calmly tell her he wanted food.

Lilith watched as her guardian stroked the soft, fine hair that formed a thin down of mahogany brown across the baby's head. There was such warmth there, such an absolute tenderness that it made her heart swell like a sponge beneath and between her ribs. For the first time since the verse of song from Pandora's lips had sunk into him, Azrael's face was completely devoid of any sign of stress.

She didn't need anyone to tell her how much he loved his infant son. And it made the tragedy of the thing so much sharper to bear. It was unclear whether a simple knife to the ribs would have hurt less, because at least the source would have been straightforward and easier to combat.

Sipping at the tea, she tasted honey and herbs and the shallow, substance-devoid flavor tea always seemed to have. But she could feel the power in it, and kept sipping until it was a third of the way gone before she mustered up the bravery to ask him.

"Will you tell me?" she said cautiously, unsure if she had the courage to look up from the mug clutched in her hands. "About the…Messiah thing? And what it means?"

He regarded her with a combination of surprise and something close enough to hurt to make her wish she hadn't spoken with such an uncertain tone. "Of course I will," he told her quietly, "I would have told you sooner, had I remembered the prediction."

Cradling his son carefully in the crook of one arm, he took a long gulp of tea. "It starts with Eve, I think. I never had much time for her—something I wish now that I could go back and change. I was too young to understand what happened when she and Adam were banished from Eden. All I know for certain is that a part of their punishment for picking and eating from the Tree of Knowledge was to never know true death."

Sensing her question, he paused for her to voice it. "Sorry," she mumbled, "why was it forbidden to eat the fruit? No one ever seems to know for sure, other than that God decreed it was."

"Because to eat from the Tree of Knowledge is to know things no mortal can," he said, "things I can't even explain because they would make no sense to you." He took another sip from his mug before setting it back done. "Drink all of that, mind," he told her absently, and she sipped at her own tea.

She sipped distractedly at her own tea, shifting so her shoulder rested against the intricate headboard, gauze from the canopy brushing her cheek as she reached out to touch the sleeping baby's cheek. There was little point in asking for clarification. If he thought things would make so little sense that he wouldn't even try to explain because she wouldn't understand, he was probably right. That didn't offend her.

"So why is our baby the Messiah," she inquired softly, "when Jesus wasn't?"

"Because Joshua was never a Messiah," he said softly, "Joshua invented a faith that opposed the overbearing Roman rule and all it stood for. He made the implication that he _was_ the child of God and made statements that held similarities to truths he shouldn't have been able to know, which drew our attention. Though it turned out he just had a talkative guardian who occasionally forgot to shield properly."

Cillian moved, appearing restless as he used one tiny hand to grip and pull at Azrael's shirt. The angel took up another of the finely woven blankets he had procured for the infant and added it to the baby's wrapping. Apparently the internal temperature balance wasn't easy to grow accustomed to, because Azrael seemed to have expected the need.

Then he continued; "It wasn't that Joshua was bad, merely misguided. He had human desires and human anger, but none of that was important. The problem was that he became consumed by the idea that every single human on earth should believe in the same faith, and even encouraged to do so through force if need-be."

For a moment Azrael was quiet, and she realized that it was due to the fact that he was trying to gather his thoughts into some semblance of order. "I should return to Eve for a moment," he explained with a note of apology. She waved it away, accustomed to the level of complexity in the stories he shared with her.

"I don't remember much," he said first, "I was too young to understand what happened when she and Adam were banished from Eden. All I know for certain is that when it came time for her to die, the Almighty had me put her into an everlasting sleep rather than take her soul to Elysia."

Lilith finished her tea with only a slight echo of a grimace and put down her mug. "Why have her sleep instead of die like a normal person?" she asked, her brows knit with lightweight confusion.

He looked away, and she could see in the distance there only the love and affection he had for the God that had made him. He claimed to be only created, with all the coldness and lack of connection the term implied; but she couldn't help but think it an underestimation of God the way he described her-slash-him. Something so complex and thoughtful could only have been born, even if not in the most conventional of ways.

"The Almighty experiences a great number of visions in a single day," he murmured, and she heard the complicated mixture of wonder and ambivalence in the way his voice stitched the sounds together. "To be all-knowing means to see and experience everything from the present to the past to a multitude of potential futures—so I hear."

Smoothing a fine wrinkle in the sheet spread beneath them, he added softly; "It's difficult for her to know which futures to focus on and which to discard, but when she can she tries to guide humanity away from severely bad choices and toward good ones. As she can't show herself to a human and cannot take a shell form as we angels can, she speaks through Eve."

For a moment Lilith was entertaining thoughts that featured one mind slipping in and out of another, operating the host body with all the smooth, eerie and unnatural efficiency of an animator inside a machine.

"Not through possession," he added quickly, as though he'd seen the images reflected in her eyes. "Such a thing is impossible. If a living being were to have such close proximity to the mind of God, they would break."

The lilting tone belonging to that last were grim and she wondered what they really meant; insanity or complete lack of function. Mild cracking, like that of a mind unhinged, or desecrated like the face of a porcelain doll when smashed? She had heard myths that the true voices of deities could destroy a human mind, and perhaps this was where those myths had come from, but she wasn't all that sure she wanted to know.

"The Almighty merely shows Eve whichever images need to be acted upon and instructs her on what to say and to whom, then Eve carries those missives to the ears that are meant to hear them. It is an…unusual relationship."

Faintly amused by such a tame term for an alliance of the sort he had described. "Apparently so," she mused, happy when he smiled in response.

"As far as I know, the Almighty saw something which made her believe that Joshua might serve as a sort of bridge between the realms."

Suddenly he was holding the baby out for her to take, indicating with a nod toward his sleeves that he wished to dress down for the night. She was quick to take him, cradling their child to her chest as Azrael moved from the bed and toward the adjoining dressing room, returning quickly with a clean pair of loose white slacks.

"All this is estimation, understand," he informed her, violet eyes tentative as he folding the slacks and setting them on the bed before setting to work on the buttons of his shirt. "But I believe that because of the Almighty's love for her children—_all_ her children—she was overly eager to return to the way things were when humans still lived in Eden and knew her as a mother. The vehement following Joshua developed gave her hope."

Lilith was startled by how much sense that made. As she watched him shrug from the shirt and toss it away, she was accosted by the idea that only an entity with such powerful maternal feeling would be capable of creating something as blindingly wonderful as Azrael. Only something with attachments to and affection for the beings it created could possibly have the capacity to put breath into the angels.

She experienced a rapid surge of pride in the certainty that her baby would be as handsome as his father. Yet a sudden sadness engulfed her soon afterward, as she remembered that they were discussing the reason why she wouldn't be able to watch Cillian grow into that beauty.

"So," she began, hoping she correctly grasped the concepts he was trying to help her understand, "it's not because Gabriel and Enoch are busy, it's because she wants to have a hand in helping humans?"

"We think so," he confirmed, stripping from his jeans and pretending he didn't know that her cheeks had turned faintly pink at the sight of his firmly shaped buttocks and thighs. He donned the soft clean pants without preamble, and she was grateful that her partner was capable of exercising more self-discipline than she was.

"But something in her visions changed, and she must have realized Joshua wasn't a part of the best future for humanity," he settled back on the edge of the bed and angled himself toward her. "So she showed Eve his prejudices and his desire to conform his brethren under a single faith, to burn if they didn't convert, and had her—under the guardianship of Joshua's closest friend Judas Iscariot—attend what Christians call the Last Supper, where she gave the prophecy that began the mythology of the Messiah."

Lilith realized she had her lip between her teeth and hastily let it go. "And that was where the impossible blood prediction was made?"

He heaved a heavily weighted sigh. "Yes, it was. _Yours__is__not__the__true__Messiah,_she said; which can only mean that the Almighty had a vision of a savior who would be born further into the future. And who wasn't misguided as Joshua was. Again," he noted, "estimation."

In unison they gazed down at the little boy held in Lilith's arms, the delicate mix of blood and genes that should never have been possible. He didn't need to tell her that something in one of God's visions had informed her that the only thing that could build the bridge she so yearned for would come from a melding of the two races she had created. That much was evident.

What she didn't understand was how, if it was an impossibility because angels were unable to breed with mortals and demon children were automatically damned. How had it happened at all? By all right and reason, Azrael shouldn't have been able to impregnate her.

But, as it happened, he had a theory on that as well.

Looking suddenly rather bashful, he said slowly, "you were intended to be my balance in more than one aspect. If your birth was specially tailored to suit me, it wouldn't be that outrageous to assume you were chemically tailored as well—"

"Wait," she interjected, trying not to openly display how weird it made her feel to think she had been a product of a form of experimentation. "Are you saying I was a solution to two different problems? That I was brought up to be both emotional balance and breeding stock?"

She almost laughed at the expression that crossed his face; the utter horror that streaked his features was almost comical. "That's not what I'm saying at all!" he retorted, clearly affronted by even the suggestion. "I'm saying it was convenience and simplicity. If I required love, it would be even more powerful if that love could be solidified by a life-mate _and_ a child." He grumbled, "_breeding__stock__…_" as though the words offended him.

She did laugh then, softly so as not to wake the baby nestled in her arms. "All right, then. Not breeding stock."

"_No,_" he repeated emphatically. "Besides, a Messiah born to a seraph has that much more of a chance to be accepted as a holy vessel than one born to a cherub or a guardian."

Her eyes widened with a sudden lift of hope. "You could take him to Heaven?" she whispered, hardly daring to believe it; but the spark of elation was buried beneath the ashes of his sorrowful touch to her cheek.

"I'm sorry darling," he murmured, "for all that he is my son, Cillian will always be part human…with a mother who was damned for illegal hybridization." The look on his face was so utterly sad, the gray in his eyes so bleached of tone that she could barely stand to look at them. "It is an unfortunate stigma that many of my brethren share."

His fingers slid along her jaw and fell from her chin in a gentle caress that seemed to echo the slipping of her hope back into the pit of her stomach. She tucked the blankets around the baby that had been born of her flesh and blood, and couldn't help the cold, sinking nausea of anger toward whoever would hinder his future simply because of her situation. She had been born a human, and she had done nothing evil to warrant staying here in Hell. He shouldn't have had to pay for her choices.

It wasn't fair.

But that was the way of the world. She certainly didn't want to risk her son's safety if that was something to fear.

Steeling herself, she lifted her chin in time to see Azrael running a hand over his face. "What's wrong?"

He forced a small smile, which worried her. "Nothing. Sometimes I wonder if I hadn't hybridized you…if things would be different."

She knew better than to listen to the small stab of pain in her heart. He wasn't saying he regretted giving her long life, just that he wasn't sure things wouldn't have been better had he waited. Scooting carefully across the bed she wedged herself between the arm he had braced upon the mattress and the smooth length of his torso.

"It doesn't matter now," she told him softly, her lips soft against his cheek. "It is what it is. You didn't know this would happen."

Judging by the warmth in his eyes then, the words hadn't been out of line. In fact, there was so much warmth there that she felt almost embarrassed by the heat of it on her face.

"So…" she gathered her direction and adjusting to replace the nightgown strap that had slipped from her shoulder. "Why isn't it safe for him to be with us?" That was, after all, the most important question.

"Since Joshua's time, there have been humans born with abilities more angelic in nature than seemed possible," he paused, and something about the way he regarded her made her feel as though he was trying to penetrate her mind with his eyes. "Abilities such as prophecy, low but strong levels of _manath,_the capacity to perform alchemy, among others. Often there would be three of these individuals in the world at any one time, each with a different strength."

He was still looking at her with that studious, searching quality to his gaze that made her itch with the knowledge that he was using magic to examine her. She wanted to tell him to stop, because it was annoying, but she knew it was only her raw hormones making her irritable and quick-tempered.

"They became known as the Triad," he continued after a moment's thought, "and around the time of thirteenth century the Triad began trying to organize a society of free-thinkers and open-minded believers who agreed that a Messiah of some kind would be born and that regardless of faith or class, they would prepare to greet and follow him or her. This they entitled the Order of the Rose."

Her eyes sharpened, recognizing the name. "Isn't that a Templar phrase?"

"It has that connotation," he answered, but he seemed to dislike the comparison. "The Templar Knights were an off-shoot of the Order, taking over when the Order began to fall apart and the Triad members began dying out and not being replaced with new members. For some reason they kept meeting hardships until they simply weren't being born."

"But wouldn't those special powers, gifts, whatever, be from God?" Lilith asked steadily, "so why would God stop giving them if the Messiah wasn't born yet?"

A single golden eyebrow arched. "Can you think of no reason? What force exists for the sole purpose of opposing the Creator?"

She sucked in a painful breath. All of a sudden her insides had been doused in cold, as though a bucket of ice had been tipped down her throat. "The _Devil?__" _she squeaked, taking care not to squish Cillian in her shock. "Why would the Devil care if there was a Messiah…or people to follow it—him?"

"Simply?" The word was rank with irony. "Because Lucifer's rebellion was based primarily on the dangers of free will. Should a Messiah live to adulthood and begin spreading the truth, not only would it prove his arguments false, but it would undermine his position as an entity on equal ground with God."

Her face paled, her cheeks chalky with the chill of her sudden fear. "He wants our baby _dead? _But—!"

"He doesn't know there _is_ a baby," he soothed, hushing her before she could begin shrieking. He could feel the speed of the pulse throbbing in her throat, and lifted his hand to her knee to squeeze reassuringly. "He doesn't know it was I who created an unauthorized hybrid, nor that that hybrid is you. And I plan on making certain he doesn't find out until the Order can be reformed and Cillian has protection strong enough to turn even Lucifer away."

"And this is likely to happen?" She questioned uncertainly, as though gauging whether or not to relax.

He nodded. "Disciples will rise again. Exactly when I can't be certain, but it will happen."

His mouth was cool at her temple, his palm strong and sure at the slope of her waist. She was calming, more because his touch was driving the terror out through her skin, and felt exhaustion in its wake, unsurprising considering she had both given birth that night and been given so much information regarding the imminent future of her newborn son.

"But for now," he said softly, "association with us might lead Lucifer to conclusions we don't want him to make just yet. He's clever enough to do it," he admitted, though she could hear the sour edge to the respect in his voice.

"Who will raise him, then?" she murmured, uncertain.

Azrael looked more tired than she would have thought an angel could; laden with the burdens of so many thoughts and wishes and fears only some of which she knew. The joys of fatherhood shouldn't have been weighed with so much doubt. Yet as he shook his head and told her he had no answer yet, she could feel his worry like something tangible on her tongue.

They curled up to sleep then, worn and sorrowed by the road fate had taken, their son nestled between their bodies and their fingers twined together.

But while Azrael slept with the stillness of his race, Lilith was plagued with dark dreams full of evil things that reached from the shadows to snatch away her little family. Dreams from which she couldn't seem to find relief.

* * *

The list promised by Arawn arrived early the next day, folded into an envelope of ink-dyed black vellum and left upon his desk by one of his officers. Azrael had been eager to slit the seal and peruse its contents, but unfortunately for that plan the envelope wasn't the sole event of the morning.

Ezekiel's wounds had reopened despite a plethora of healing spells specifically designed for knitting together muscle and sinew. The bones of his torso had begun to re-grow as planned, but the flesh around them was trying to reject the healing, bleeding profusely and splitting the ribs and vertebrae from their rightful places.

Azrael and several aides had attempted several fixes to no avail, and in the end it had been a powerful cleansing spell that had done the job of stripping away the body's reluctance to bind together. It had also, unfortunately, stripped away a good deal of skin, which Ezekiel was now having to painfully re-grow alongside bones.

And then there had been the summons.

Michael tended to prefer the less-interactive method of sending missives via message-runner. For this reason, Azrael was startled to find himself on the receiving end of a blatant summons to the communication chamber. Being hailed by Michael's hand was a rarity, and had it not signified what was sure to be a message full of disapproval and complaint, he might have found it amusing.

But it was difficult to find amusement in much of anything when in a mood as bleak as his was.

Unable to keep from lingering over the predicament dragging the joy of his son's birth down through his stomach, he had found focus of any kind slippery and evasive since waking. Even as he had given Ezekiel's finally healing wounds a last look-over he had slid in and out of various layers of attentiveness, and he was now not only tired and worried, but frustrated as well.

The sliver of mirror slid into the shallow circle etched into the floor of the room with a tiny clink of sound. Rising, he resumed wiping the stains of Ezekiel's blood from his hands on a clean cloth and shoved his magic into the treated glass to meet Michael's answering hail.

Almost before the other angel's visage had appeared upon the smooth stone wall directly opposite him Michael's voice was in his head, golden tones sour with chastisement.

"I suppose I should expect you to keep me waiting by now. But I thought you would be wiser than to parlay with an enemy soldier with neither reason nor proper protection." Michael was standing with his arms folded firmly across his chest, brow furrowed over his sure, carven face.

It didn't take a mind-reader to know that the older male was generously put-out. The reason for such aggravation over the meeting with Arawn wasn't as clear. Despite the fact that they were brothers, Michael wouldn't have cared if the encounter had ended with Azrael's death even if that death _had_ meant something. It was only that Azrael had moved without consulting him that torqued Michael's temper.

With a muted sigh, Azrael scoured the last of the blood from around his fingernails and tucked the cloth away. "I had good reason to meet with Arawn," he explained patiently, feeling that he would much rather return to hell and join Lilith in bed. "He had information I needed, neither of us bear the other ill will—there was little reason not to."

Michael's frown deepened. "This is _war,_" he said, and the tone he used was no longer golden and lovely, but sharp and metallic, swift and sure as the stroke of his sword. "We can't afford to take these kind of risks. We can't afford you racking up life-debt so early in the game."

Already edgy with stress, Azrael's temper buckled beneath the responses he would have liked to give. Taking a moment to compose himself, he rubbed his hands together and watched the sparks fly like tiny dancing stars, soft violet against his skin.

"Firstly," he spoke with a calm that did its best not to betray anger, "I was well protected. Arawn would have had a small army to contend to had he sought to harm me. And secondly, we are at _skirmish_ more than we are at war, whatever the gossips say. This isn't officially war without direct offensive retaliation from one of our legions."

Azrael's eyes were cool with humorless energy as he added, "which you haven't done…have you?"

The only sign that Michael had been in any way goaded by the implication his brother made was a slight tightening of his squared jaw. "Of course not," he snapped, and Azrael could almost hear the golden peregrine feathers ruffle at the nape of his neck.

"Good. There's no reason to be as uncivilized as the Rebellion."

Michael snorted. "Oh yes, because Lucifer is so famed for his civility. We could gather for tea and cakes."

The words were so thick with sarcasm that Azrael was vaguely hoping Michael would choke on them. They were scornful, demeaning, and insulting to everything that Azrael hoped for the diplomatic state between the realms that they almost stung him on their path through his mind.

Unwilling to release his temper, he replied with all the airy indifference he could summon, "I can still hope. I do hope a good Earl Gray will feature on the menu."

He was able to catch just the smallest flash of annoyance cross Michael's face before the other seraph's image faded and the connection was severed. The sheer briskness of the exit was proof of how infuriated Michael was sure to be. Frankly, he should have cared more that he had driven his brother to an uncharacteristic show of blatant rudeness, because while he was pompous and sneering, Michael did like to appear as though he was more well-mannered than anyone else in existence.

But Azrael was quiet simply beyond giving a half damn how many knots he'd put in Michael's ego.

Leaving the mirror to its place, he left the chamber to its solitude, moving with a breath and a thought to the room he used as study, resting place, and sanctuary away from either home he knew.

The envelope lay where he had left it, glossy and black and inviting. There was a certain ironic foreshadowing in the color choice, as though the black envelope had been intended as a warning label to a bearer of bad news. But news was news, and any information was more information that he'd had before.

The seal was plain, a non-adorned blob of white sealing wax and he sliced through it with a careless ease with the blade left resting without a sheath upon the desktop. The sharpened edge glimmered with precision as the vellum unfolded gracefully of its own will to expose the list written on white parchment with black ink in a steady, almost sternly articulate hand.

The number of names presented was not lengthy, and his eyes skimmed down its length with a feverish hope that bordered on the desperate. Just one answer. If he could answer just one question…it would be enough for now.

_**Arawn**_

The first name was his own, despite having cleared him of involvement; but others followed.

_**Agramon**_

_**Heilel**_

_**Mastema**_

_**Cain  
**_  
_**Orichalcos**_

Name after name he studied and put aside. Other Soldiers' names appeared; Soldiers that lacked the motive and desire to act, though they held the power and ability. Mastema's name was no surprise, but Azrael understood the wise older demon well enough to know that Mastema would never use a spell like the Abyssus.

When he came to the very last name, however, Azrael paused and had to exert a small effort to put down the knife very carefully to avoid accidentally slicing open his own finger. The name he read was so very familiar, remembered so absently in his thoughts that he might have overlooked it.

_**Balael**_

His eyes traced the letters that spelled the name of the demon who had once been the angel of Penitence and one of his crows and he felt the gnawing, biting chill of dread creep upward along his spine.

He knew of no real reason Balael would have to attack Ezekiel, but she wouldn't have needed a reason. She wasn't called _Mad_ for nothing; and as certain as he was that she'd had no hand in the incident, the sight of her name there, a reminder of what she was capable of, made his flesh ripple with cold. Because he could be as certain as could be, and still end up wrong.

Could Balael have been responsible? If so; why? Or was this the entirely wrong question to be asking? Perhaps instead he should have been asking the question of who wanted Balael framed for something so serious.

Either way, the answers he had so badly wanted simply weren't there.

* * *

— **September, 1888; Whitechapel, London —**

The Red Crown tavern was the sort of run-down hole-in-the-privy place the well-to-do populace of London generally tended to avoid. It was dingy and dark with grime-smeared walls, water-stained tables, tattered, patched upholstery, and rowdy with the unspoken rage of the impoverished. It did, however, offer a damn good brandy if you had the money for it.

A gentleman dressed in such quality was never present but for a round of the daring sport of having braved the slums, and only when backed by a few companions to bolster their nerves. A gentleman on his own was fodder for muggers and everyone knew it. Yet despite this one's lonely seat at a back corner and dandy-fine looks, no one had mustered the nerve to try slipping their fingers into his silken waistcoat pockets.

This particular gentleman, with his pale golden hair cut just a little too long, exuded an aura of something so imperviously empty that it put a pause in any would-be thief. The fairness of his face was countered by a gleam in his dark eyes that reminded any passerby of sharp new steel rendered blue with a deadly poison. With rumor of a murderer about in the poor district, no one much fancied taking a chance on rubbing any stranger raw, even such an attractive and visibly well-off target as he.

The gentleman was no man by any real standard; of which she – his silent observer – was all too well aware, and his presence demanded he be given a wide, respectful berth. Even the serving girl was quick to back away upon depositing the expensive bottle of drink and scooping his money into her apron, but the solitude served him well. She knew he had little patience for the idle, brainless company of these sheep.

He had come upon whim and for no other reason. London was a filthy city with airs that reached too high and too far for its means. The people that swarmed across its surface like insects were either pompous and overbearing, fattened up by gain that wasn't rightfully theirs, or fearfully grasping as they traced circles in the muck.

His willingness to tolerate it would be drawn thin; but it was better to be here than somewhere like Mayfair, where the rich and powerful strutted and preened, parading their terrified daughters in a string for the pleasure and perusal of their unwed menfolk. The wealthy were deluded with the idea that their form of precedence held any meaning beyond that of an earthy, shallow nature. They were no more _living_ than he was.

At least the poor were honest with themselves and their lot; at least they managed to retain some color, stained or otherwise. The myriad of noises coming from the boxing match taking place in the adjacent room said as much.

Half the bottle of brandy went, Balael assumed, without so much as a tingling to prove an alcoholic nature. And his eyes wandered to the counter where a prostitute wailed about a street-sister's grisly death at the hands of a man who had slaughtered her with a scalpel and sent her kidney to Scotland Yard through the Post.

She understood that he would consider such a death and the sensation that would have preceded it. What would it feel like to be split open, to have organs painstakingly removed while breath still guided knowledge of pain to the brain?

But he already knew what it was to have his belly cleaved in two. He had already seen his own insides spill upon the cobblestones of a time not terribly long passed. He would remember the pain, the bittersweet tang of it on his tongue and sizzling along his veins until his fingers and toes had curled into his own flesh. She had borne witness to that death, and the disappointment that had followed.

He had thought it would end him – thought or hoped. Fortune's fool, he had awoken not long after in Eden, whole and hale and as empty as a gourd shell scraped clean of its meat.

It had been the last of many attempts to wipe himself from existence. But the Darkness that Births and Devours All Things had deigned him unfit to be reabsorbed into its embrace. The fury she'd expected had never come. He had pushed it back into the recesses of himself until he could no longer feel even the barest echoes of the rejection that had turned all goodness sour, until he could no longer feel anything at all.

It was the only way he'd known to keep from drowning.

She descended the top half of the rickety stairwell leading to the guest rooms the tavern used to double as a short-order inn, where she had paused to observe the man who was not a man. Once she had served him with the fealty of a believer, but that had been a time she no longer clearly remembered, blocked by a haze of misery and contempt. One thing, however, was clear; this was not the man she remembered.

That man had never been so hollow. Yet there he sat, filtering the mild brand of human chaos with such utter detachment that it couldn't even have been called indifference. That would have required some kind of negative emotion, which was something he simply didn't have.

Despite the tasteful finery in his gold-stitched jacket and waistcoat, white shirt, silk tie and dark slacks, the rest of him seemed as vapid and bleached as an overturned bowl. Emotionless; a state Death had never been meant to reach.

When the drunken dock-worker stumbled into the table at which the subject of her study sat, she could feel the energy in the air ripple with cold, calculating awareness. Hiccoughing as he shakily corrected, the human lifted bloodshot eyes to the gentleman's face.

"Watch it y'bloody—" He gulped back the insult, cowed by the thickening cloud of menace that was neither righteous nor cruel which startled him into stammering apologies about all the harm he had never meant.

There was something about looking Death in the face that got through to even the daftest of the mortal race. It was as though they could feel the chill of his hand at the base of their throat, smell the odor of funeral flowers and expensive oils that would burn with a clear blue flame when lit. As though they could see something of what he was in the shadows that shifted warily at his back like great, unfurling wings. It was as though his mere presence could still their breath or their heart should they look too long upon him.

The angel made no attempt to conceal it, or even dull the pulse of power that rippled from his earthly body. He did no more than look at the human from between strands of gold hair with eyes that were much too dark to be anything other than spiraling, blackened voids.

Much to the amusement of the tavern's patronage (as well as her own, she would admit), the worker reeled backward with enough eager vehemence to get away that he sent himself sprawling. The guffaws rose to a chorusing volume as the man skidded painfully along the floorboards. His tankard of ale overturned, spilling messily, where the barmaid hastily dropped her homespun cleaning cloth to stem the flow before it reached the gentleman's fine calfskin boots.

Rising from his seat, the angel slid back into the thick wool frock coat that had been draped across the back of the chair and was suddenly out in the autumn night with neither sound nor gesture to give his absence any sense.

She knew and followed, however, the stiff silk of her bustle making the faintest whisper of sound as she traced his route outside and along the back street which circled around the tavern and toward the Thames. It wasn't unusual; he did a lot of wandering these days. To stay in one place too long made him uneasy. And there was little else to occupy him when the night's hours drew to that soft, silent time that found lovers comfort in one others' arms.

Rainwater pooled where the stone cobbles of the streets were worn apart or poorly laid, creating shimmering illusions of diamond sprinkled across the ground as though by an especially eccentric jeweler. They splashed underfoot, sending sparkling beads to wet the stones with silver. Rain had washed out the stonework of England's poorer sectors, blemishing fixtures that had once stood proud and lovely and now remained in shame, twisted and grotesque. The faces of cemetery angels worn featureless and vague.

Between the chipped, Grecian-style pillars stretched the alleyways that formed the capillaries of the city. And it from one of these allies came the roughened sounds of a scuffle.

His steps stilled at the mouth of the cramped corridor, the shoulder of his coat cutting a sharp silhouette against the soot-grayed stone as he turned his head to one side. She was just able to see beyond him and observe, as he did, a pair of muggers toss their victim into the wall adjacent to his left.

"Don't—don't do this!" The victim pleaded, his attempts to ward the muggers away falling short of effective as one man tore the jacket from his shoulders to raid its sparse pockets and the other held a greasy butcher's knife with a notched blade toward his throat. "You don't want to be arrested—"

"Like people are gonna blame anyone but the Ripper," the knife-wielding mugger said shortly as his fellow dumped the emptied coat and thrust the man's money into his own trousers. "'Course that means you'll have to die."

The man didn't bother with any more talk. Instead, he wrenched from captivity, receiving a small nick at the chin from the knife as he launched himself toward the main street. It didn't get him far as, with a shout, the pocket-raiding mugger managed to grasp him by the waistband of his pants to prevent his escape. But the man had drawn close enough to catch sight of the angel standing there, watching in silence, and with a note of hope upon his breath called: "help me!"

Yet when Azrael merely watched as the muggers combined their effort to haul their victim back inside the alley's shadow (casting only brief, wary glances toward the witness), the man's face fell with an awful mixture of disbelief and horror. "_Help_ me!" he cried, the desperation turning the syllables shrill and sour.

Two pairs of eyes followed the arc of the knife in the gaslight as it bit into the man's throat, cutting off his screams with a gurgling splatter of blood – one dark and motionless as pitch, the other wide and pale with alarm. Then the angel continued on his way, not even bothering to wait for the dead man's soul to leak from its shell, merely content to return for it later, as though it wasn't worth the bother. As though dying were a punishment for the weak-willed or incapable as well as the sinful.

There was no guilt, no sorrow, no nothing but an empty calculation of reason. Why bother lifting a hand to prolong a life that would only reach the same result another day?

It couldn't have been colder even if he had made the blow that would sever the breath from its lifecord. But that would have required caring, and Azrael hadn't cared about anything since the age of culture and knowledge had descended into the age of sciences and dirty machinery. He had become just as cold as those machines; just as calculating. Just as driven by a purpose founded by nothing other than following motions until he was nothing but a skeleton of purpose fleshed by ice.

The Grim fucking Reaper.

She glanced back and forth between the retreating angel and the quickly dying human, her inhale rank with the tastes of blood and fear and horror. Pity though she did, she followed the man who walked, knowing there was nothing left in that alley to feel sympathy for.

While it shouldn't have, his conduct both shocked and saddened his unseen watcher. Death had always retained the capacity for cruelty, but something about witnessing it firsthand had chilled her to the core. Mercy was one of his Hands…but then, so was blood; two volatile and difficult powers to balance. Without something to ground him, he was as wild as chaos and tight-fisted as order.

It was a mark of how little a threat he deemed her if he couldn't even be bothered to inquire as to her business trailing after him along the streets toward Blackfriars. Still, she kept her distance respectful and her steps quiet so as not to disturb him. She had no desire to wind up on the wrong side of his mood.

All the while, though, a part of her mourned the strong, kind, beautiful angel she had once served so faithfully, wondering where he had gone and whether she would ever see him again.

He was headed west, the neighborhoods growing nicer and increasingly well-kept as they passed. Close-tucked houses with white trim and delicate fences of wrought metal met neatly-scrubbed shops; the cobblestones were set more closely together, the puddles smaller here and the dirt swept away every evening. Yet even in the wealthier areas the people out for evening business or recreational strolls veered away from the handsome man with the fine clothes and cold marble face.

He paused by an ornamental fountain adorned with what she thought was a Raphaelite cherub pouring a continuous stream of chilly water into the black stone base from a jug, and turned his eyes toward the massive snow white dome and spires of St Paul's Cathedral. She realized, probably before he did, that he would choose the church as his impromptu destination.

As he entered, she lingered well back to ensure a moment of privacy. He could hide from her if he chose, not that she believed he would; she was but a one-winged crow, of no consequence or shame. She ducked behind the pews to conceal her visible presence as a sign of respect, nothing more.

The relationship most angels had with churches was complex. On one hand, they were abhorred for the lies they spread and the tyranny they had always subtly supported (though sometimes without intending to). On the other, they were places of quiet and serenity, perfect for the restless mind and the weary heart. It was somewhere away from the smell of grime, filth and sin.

Why he would seek this kind of solace now, she couldn't know. Lately he seemed unable to tolerate too much stillness for fear of suffering the remembrance that came with it. But whether for comfort or simply for a place to think, he trod the artfully polished floor without pause.

The majority of the clergy had long-since retired for the night and all was quiet. He passed row after row of pews, passed beneath the tall, vaulted and mosaic-strewn ceiling, the soft light of thousands of candles casting flickering illumination upon his white face. He was peeling the gloves from his fingers, the thin, butter soft leather pulled from his skin with all the regret of a wistful paramour.

At the altar and its great gilded crucifix he knelt, reaching toward the twin candelabra to the rear of the display which stood unlit to conserve wax and prevent light from harming the visage of the cross. The flame leapt from his fingertips to breathe life into the candle wicks and bless the altar with a light holier than any the building had ever seen before.

His eyes lifted to the cross, then rose to look up at the ceiling and the sky beyond; thinking or praying? It was impossible to know for sure. With a flare of melancholy, she watched the shadowy mirror of his wings unfurl against the richly decorated walls, both knowing and hating that she could do nothing for the man she still loved in some indefinable way.

A shout came from the vestibule leading to the quarters belonging to the clergy, where a single senior priest stood, radiating awe, disgust, and fearful certainty. The human's eyes were fixed to the arch of the ceiling where the impression of wings flickered in the candlelight. The repeated cries of "begone, demon!" hurled from his lips were met by Azrael turning his head coolly back toward the altar, settled on ignoring the annoyance.

Though she hadn't been one of his crows for over several thousand earthly years, the instinct to leap between him and danger was powerful enough to pull her from her crouch behind the pews several yards away.

The priest fancied himself some kind of exorcist, and upon assuming the things he had seen – being committed during the Devil's hour – were demonic in nature, decided he would purge the earth of an abomination. The wire he threw at the kneeling angel was barbed, and undoubtedly treated with what he thought was holy water, intended to lasso and hold the possessed body still for exorcism.

But at the last second Azrael threw up an arm in time to prevent it from wrapping about anything more vital than his wrist. Without gloves, there was nothing between his skin and the metal barbs. They cut into him deeply enough to bleed as the priest pulled as though to drag him from the altar; as though an aged human's strength was comparable to that of an angel's.

Anyone else might have questioned why he hadn't simply caused the wire to fall short or simply cease to be; but Balael understood. Pain allowed him to feel without breaking inside, even if it was bitter and sharp. And she could see that Azrael's eyes were glittering like shards of obsidian as they fixed first upon his bloodied wrist and the taut string of wire, then the rapidly whitening face of the priest.

And yet…whatever even the head-clearing rush of pain offered him, it wasn't enough. Feeling wasn't caring. Reaction wasn't compassion. Rage that knew no serenity wasn't truly rage at all. Loveless yearning had no end, and emptiness had no relief. This raw, instinct-driven creature was pure Death, not the angel he should have been.

Hurriedly the man's mouth began to move, forming words with origins that far preceded his knowledge. "_Exorcizo__te,__omnis__spiritus__immunde,__in__nomine__Dei__Patris__—"_

The air within the cathedral shuddered and warped. She gasped, clutching at the side of a vacant pew to steady herself beneath the sudden swell of power that had seemed to replace the very air. As the priest tossed a handful of ash, the particles stilled upon the vapid space between himself and the angel who slowly rose to his feet, lowering his bleeding arm.

Immediately she realized what Azrael would do. She had just enough time to squeeze her eyes shut and clap her hands over her earthly ears before he shed his shell form like an unwanted cloak.

"The blood of immortality. Sweet to taste, but bitter once devoured."

The weight of power in the enormous room increased a thousandfold, the pressure spreading to fill the space to the very corners, until it threatened to buckle the steadfast stone and wooden walls.

Even the precautions didn't keep the shallow roar of his voice from bloodying her ears or the blistering white of the light from searing her retinas. Her throat scraped raw with a soundless scream. The edges of his wings clipped her shoulder as she sank to her trembling knees.

Only when she felt the spirit energy of her one-time lord and master fade away into absence did she dare open her eyes. Every candle in the chapel had blown out, but there was an eerie luminance which lingered in the place he had stood, ebbing into darkness, as though the air itself had been scalded by the holy power of the angel's soul form ascending from the earthly plain. It was bright enough yet to illuminate the fallen body of the priest.

She didn't need to approach to know that the human's eyes would have been burned from their sockets, that blood would still be pooling from his ears, that his throat would be torn ragged with the breath that had been ripped from them. She could smell the charred flesh of his palms from the melted wire, the burning hair, the coppery blood.

That's what happened when a mortal had the misfortune of gazing at an angel without protection. It was why visiting immortals encased themselves in earthly bodies when they had business on the mortal plain, because normally they cared what befell their mortal half-cousins.

For the second time in a single night she had witnessed the Angel of Death turn his back on not only unwritten rules, but on the compassion that had been such a crucial part of his character. Logically, she understood why he hadn't helped the poor man in the alley. It had probably been that man's time to die.

But this…this she didn't understand. He could have simply been elsewhere in the blink of an eye, no harm done to any human, his arm already on its way to healing. But he hadn't bothered.

As Balael lowered her hands into her lap, she watched the tiny drops of scarlet from her bloodied ears slide along her fingers, thick and sticky, to form tiny drip like patterns upon the skirt of her black and white striped town dress.

Without compassion there was only the purpose; the void. The emptiness had to be fulfilled, and if he couldn't turn to love for the pain of it, he would lock it away until all that was left was the bestial creature that sought a way to feed from the life he took; wishing that it was his own to end. Without love, he was but a shadow of what he was.

Like Mercy, the Hand of Blood had to be appeased; and when he could no longer feel, it didn't matter how. Therein lay the darkness in Death.


	18. La Perduta Principessa

**Chapter 18**  
La Perduta Principessa  
(The Lost Princess)

Recommended Listening: "End Suite" and "Just a Fragment of You" by  
Brian Reitzell [from Red Riding Hood] and "Where is My Mind"  
by Yoav feat. Emily Browning [from Sucker Punch]

* * *

The morning had the quiet, serene quality which only seemed possible when spent with family. A fire hissed away in the glossy stone hearth and cast a warm glow across the cherry floors, adding to the quiet, not-quite-rhythmic scratch of Azrael's quill across a new sheet of parchment. The smell of ink mixed with the muted scents of smoke and baby powder.

Lilith sat with her face to the fire, engrossed in a novel and gently nudging the baby's cradle with her toe so it rocked lightly back and forth. The motion intended purely to sooth the baby nestled inside to sleep after an hour of idle play with a soft toy lion. This was where the angel's eyes would flicker every time the urge caught him, to watch as his ward lean over the crib to smile at their baby, humming quietly under her breath as she tucked the end of a blanket back into place.

But despite appearances, the calmness of the scene was an illusion. Neither the woman at the armchair nor the man at the desk was as happy or contented as it might have seemed.

Shadows of doubt bound still bleeding wounds, and yet for the past few days they had limped forward, trying to find a way to tuck the stresses away into a place where the pain they caused might be dulled just for a little while. And perhaps, for the meantime, ignoring the bad things had worked. But they both knew the tentative peace would never last.

The prevailing question remained: who would care for the baby whose safety could, and probably _would,_ be jeopardized by close proximity to his parents? There didn't seem to be an answer, and that in itself seemed more worrisome than anything else.

It was this question that dragged Lilith from her book on more than one occasion to ponder. Azrael noted from his seat desk each time that her eyes would lower sadly when she sank back into the recesses of the story with the shiny laminated cover, having come up empty. Each occurrence brutally emphasized with the pureness of her silence.

As though she were as clearly readable as a line of text like those in her book, he could see the formation of feelings behind her face. The growing intensity of her worry conformed into a denial so sharp and bitter that it became almost palpable; so when the exclamation finally burst forth, it wasn't unexpected.

"Why can't we just keep him?" She began suddenly, and he heard the slight tang of desperation slant her tone. It was a sound that bordered a shallow kind of madness that could only be attributed to the firmest, most undeniable of instincts. His eyes lowered from her eerily still face to her hands, slim and pale, where they clutched at the book just a little too tightly. "I mean, really…we're his parents, _we're_ supposed to raise him!"

Moving with a deliberate care and slowness, he put down his quill and slid his chair to face her, his hands white against the deep burgundy of the upholstery. "Because," he said softly, as gently and patiently as he was able, "it wouldn't be safe."

There was an unexpected hardness to Lilith's green eyes when they shot to his face. Her jaw had clenched, a betrayal of her rush of anger, though her foot never stilled its rocking rhythm at Cillian's cradle. "You keep saying that," she snapped, "but I can't understand why."

"Can't, or _won't?_" He retorted, and immediately regretted the harsh edge there had been to his words.

But she seemed to realize that she was being unreasonable and her expression showed a light shame befitting the chastisement. "I'm sorry. It just seems like melodramatic bad luck…"

She sighed with a mournful weight and he immediately rose from his seat to go to her. Kneeling beside her chair, he took her hand in one of his own while the other lifted to stroke her hair and take measure of the soul-devouring weariness that pooled beneath her skin, just as it did beneath his own.

A reminder that Lilith's reactions were not driven by a true anger; they were made of the same fear and stress that plagued himself.

"I get that you're watched by bad informants, I really do," she squeezed his fingers, and the gesture was warm despite the uncertainty in her face. "But what I don't get is why staying with me could be just as bad. I'm not a military or political figure, I'm not important. No one's paying any attention to me. So why can't I just go back home and pretend _human_ Adrian Harker got me pregnant before heading off to Iraq?"

He gave her a faint smile, but she could see the sadness at its edges before he could reply. "I wish I could endorse that plan, even if it would blacken my name in the eyes of your friends."

"But…" She supplied the transition for him.

There was so much in her soft green eyes. Lilith had always been an old soul, mostly through premature necessity; strain to survive had aged her in ways that a woman still young after nearly twenty-two years should not have had to experience, too much knowledge and too much pain.

Sometimes he was stricken by how much else he forced her to live through. But it was times like these, when she regarded him with that measure of resignation, instead of pitying her for her misfortune he acknowledged that without the experiences of her childhood, she never would have been able to handle the life he had given her.

"But," he agreed, voice quiet, "it would be a risk we can't afford to take."

Her foot stilled at the edge of the baby's crib, easing the gentle rocking until it came to stillness. Cillian neither moved nor made a sound to indicate he had noticed his mother's attention slip from his slumber, either because, like with his astounding lack of crying, he didn't truly need it or because he was simply too sleepy to care, it wasn't certain.

"Demonic activity on the mortal plain has been increasing at a rate that frankly disturbs me. You've already had a brush with this," he saw the faint shudder that rippled across her shoulders as she recalled the insect demons that had claimed a desire to devour her flesh. "You will always be tied to me under guise of guardianship. Most would deem that uninteresting at best, since I'm not the first seraph to take a mortal charge. However…"

His expression smoothed to adopt a glassy, marble perfection, a look she recognized all too well as a mask of indifference he used to control deeper, less amiable emotions. It was an attempt to hide the shadows that could have crept there, along the facets of his face, in place of that mask.

"If the wrong ears received information that it was _I_ who made an illegal hybrid and _you_ who became immortal, interest in you would grow enough to draw attention to the fact that you suddenly have a child. It won't be difficult to make the leap to my being the father." His hand tightened infinitesimally around her own. "I can't even predict how quickly the assassination attempts would begin."

Something deep in her chest iced over with a horrible, hollow fear. She knew her nails had begun to dig into the skin at the back of Azrael's hand, but she was somehow separate from it, knowing, but unable to make herself stop. He had explained the danger of someone finding out…but somehow it hadn't seemed real until talk of _assassination _had crossed his lips.

Once she might have scoffed at the term _maternal instinct_, especially in terms of needing to protect one's child at all costs and the terror that came with suspecting that child might come to harm. Her own mother hadn't seemed to possess such a thing. But that had been before she had her own to politely prove her wrong, because the idea of assassins coming for her baby iced all the blood in her body.

"For Cillian's safety—not to mention your own," Azrael handled his pause delicately, but she could feel the chill of his touch deepen, betraying the deep-set wish that he didn't have to say what he was about to. "I think the best plan is to conceal any and all ties to me until circumstances lean more toward our favor. Unfortunately, this means concealing ties to you as well."

It couldn't have been easy for her to hear. God only knew it was like breathing razorblades to shove the words up from his throat, even if they _had_ mostly come to the same conclusion already.

"This is all because a child that's half human and half angel might make the Devil look weak compared to God?" She said it with such calm that he couldn't squash the pride that swelled to fill his chest.

"In a way, yes," he answered, rising to approach the bookshelves at the edge of the hearth, his thoughts beginning to slide away from conversation. "Such a child is yet another way the Almighty can exert more sway over our human cousins than Lucifer could. The concept of power is oxygen to him. The implication that he has less, therefore, is suffocating."

A flash of anger caused her face to darken. "So it comes down to politics."

He didn't have the heart to correct her.

In truth, politics was only a single facet to an issue the magnitude of which could change every established aspect of the relationship between the mortal and immortal realms.

In the earliest stages of the idea's conception, the Messiah was simply meant to be another link between humans and the divine; but when it became clear that Joshua hadn't possessed the proper temperament for the task, the post had gone through some in-depth reformation.

The Almighty had been enthusiastic about the prospect of becoming closer to her mortal children through an avatar that wouldn't need her direct control. Weary of being something akin to a puppet-master. She had composed lists of the duties such a being would have to undertake; duties that humankind would never have been able to accept directly from an angel without resorting to too much reverence.

The Messiahs would be everything a human priest was. They would listen to troubles, offer advice, aide the suffering and assist the wayward soul. But they must also be able to defend their charges from demonic threat when their angel brethren couldn't due to inter-realm law, and be able to know and grasp the true state of divinity without becoming – as Joshua had – corrupted by it.

And they would have to possess an even mixture of angelic and human blood; a feat which had been assumed to be impossible.

Why the Messiah had to contain the blood of both realms, the Almighty had never fully disclosed. From what he had been able to research (which wasn't much, as there were few documents remaining from the abandoned project), Azrael had begun to suspect that the sheer miracle of cross-breeding would allow such a child access to magics more powerful than the limited Alchemy that was the extent of human potential.

It wasn't that a half-angel child's power would be strong enough to pose much of a threat to Lucifer, because even a _part_-human soul could contain only so much without bursting.

The threat lay in the demon underground, which was hidden beneath the surface of the mortal world; where demons with a clean-enough disciplinary record were allowed admittance through the barrier spells. Once there, if they were clever enough to avoid getting caught, demons could prey on human souls to their black, twisted hearts' content. They could even force a human to commit sins that would get them a sentence to Hell.

Due to resilient loopholes, unless a guardian either witnessed an illegal act or was lucky enough to find proof to present to the Judges, there was virtually no way to punish a demon for mistreating humans.

A human could fend off a demon attack on their own if they were able; a feat so rare that it hadn't happened in the last hundred years. But because of this, any being containing human blood was counted as human enough to hunt and slay demons with _or_ without direct evidence that the demon in question was a lawbreaker. _This_ was where the danger of a Messiah lay for demonkind.

With an Order large enough to support such a child, demonic activity on earth could be eradicated altogether. And that was what Lucifer feared; his loss of power upon the mortal plain, and thereby against Heaven.

But this, in turn, meant that the Devil would never rest until the threats to his grip on humanity were eradicated: the baby born of a seraph father and the human mother who was compatible enough to conceive him.

Azrael studied the misery and resignation layered in his ward and lover's face. She hadn't voiced it out loud, but he could feel the frustration humming inside her as surely as he would have felt the vibration of a violin's string beneath his fingers; frustration directed at the God she thought was supposed to love and care for them. A question he could never answer, defiance he could never argue with because he shared it with her.

It wouldn't have been the first time he questioned the actions of his maker; but this time he wasn't sure if he could ever recover from the result.

Suddenly Lilith gasped, the short, sharp intake of breath startling him out of the uncanny familiarity of despair with a subtle jolt. He glanced with some concern toward her as she got quickly to her feet.

"_Sarah,_" she breathed, the name formed with the utter reverence belonging to what had probably been an absent thought, saved prior to being discarded upon the realization that it was a good one.

Nonplussed, he watched her rise from her seat, slowly so as not to wake the baby. "What about her?"

"She's wanted kids since we were in high school," she explained, "she told us that even if she wasn't married by twenty-five she was going to adopt. But what's two years difference, right?"

Though the question hovered, unspoken, on his lips at first, it waited for him to mold it with some delicacy before he spoke. "Without trying for her own first?"

Something in Lilith's face lost the faint light of joy. "She…" He felt the plunging depth of her sadness overwhelm her speech, halting her words until she could manage them again. "She never mentioned trying to conceive again."

Awful pity coiled inside the understanding that collided with his heart. "Pandora told me you were concerned about miscarriage when you came early to term…"

She nodded. "That's why. Sarah got pregnant when I was in my junior year. She was so excited, even if it would have been hard. But then—"

Her voice went hoarse, then finally faded into a silence that was deafening. Azrael could do no more than fold her into his arms, rest his cheek against the part of her hair, and share some of that terrible mixture of anguish, sympathy and relief.

"I was so scared I would have a problem too…"

"But you didn't," he soothed, and she nodded so fervently that she might have still not quite believed it could be true.

His thoughts turned to her proposition, that their son go to her closest friend, and the longer he considered it the more he grew to like the simplicity of it. Rather than take who knew how many hours he didn't have to locate an acceptable couple, he could take Cillian to Sarah, who was already invested enough in her love for Lilith to make the idea of taking Lilith's child all the easier to accept.

"You think she would take him?" he asked softly.

Lilith smiled and shook her head. "I think she's make a formidably wonderful foster mother. Especially now that it's likely she has a steady relationship to help her along, and Mark seems like the type to be a supportive partner."

"You don't mind terribly if I descend to do some investigation into the matter, do you?" He phrased the inquiry with respectful caution, not wanting her to think he was questioning her friend's suitability to raise their son.

With the choked noise of quickly smothered laughter she shook her head, laying her hand on his arm and squeezing gently. "Of course not," she told him, "it's important to know if things have changed since I've been gone."

Abruptly she paled, her face draining of color so quickly that it was almost alarming. Her grip went slack, her empty hand rising to her temple as her body swayed, trembling so forcefully that he could feel it in the air.

He caught her before she could sink to the floor, lifting her in his arms, her back cool and shivery against his chest. Alarm seared him with the efficiency of fire, its chilling, overpowering dread racing through his veins while he gazed down at her with concern turning his eyes pale.

It had been five days since the birthing and she was still so weak. She still shivered as though she was being bathed in ice, her limbs frail. The tie between her and their son had run deeper than a mere cord of tissue and blood; since Cillian had inherited a trace of his father's magic, the severing of that connection had shaken her roughly, enough to sap her of strength.

Azrael carried her back to her chair, where he nestled her, draping blankets over her shoulders and pressing raw warmth into her flesh through the touch of his hands. She smiled at him, a little shakily, but well enough to reassure him. It hadn't been the first spell of its kind, but it was the least frightening thus far.

"I'm all right," she said, "don't fuss." One pale hand reached for his face where it rested every so gently, her palm chilled even to his cool skin. "I was just starting to hope this would be over by tomorrow…but I guess I'm not that lucky."

His lips smoothed against her cheek, a tender kiss that belied so many things he could never put into words. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and startled slightly when she laughed.

"As if this is your fault," she laughed. Then her expression took on a troubled edge, her brow furrowed and her teeth worrying at her lower lip. "If we can't draw attention to our connection with Cillian, how will that affect my time at home?"

He stiffened imperceptibly, wishing he'd had the foresight to predict such a question she he could have better prepared the answer she wouldn't like. It could be the thing that made her realize just what he had taken from her by not only inserting himself into her life, but by allowing her to coerce him into making her immortal. Perhaps this would be the day when she began to hate him for what he had done.

Heart sinking, he looked her in the eyes and told her the truth. "The apartment on Cherry can no longer be your home." He said it with such devastating regret that the sounds of the words seemed to shudder when they left his mouth. "If we are to deliver Cillian to Sarah, you won't be able to regain your life there."

To his utter amazement, her face was perfectly composed; a little sad perhaps, but not stricken with hurt or rage. She didn't cry or plead with him to say it wasn't true.

"I had a feeling you would say that." She sighed, her hand sliding from his cheek to settle in her lap. "Sarah will be more likely to take him if she knows he's mine. And if she knows he's mine, I can't very well live in my apartment or go to work like normal."

"It might endanger you both," he affirmed, grateful she had somehow managed to realize that she would never again have the things she'd had as a human. All the same, he wondered at the grace with which she seemed to be handling it. And so he noted, very carefully, "you seem strangely content with knowing your life has changed so drastically."

She gave him a look that was mildly insulted. "Remember the lecture you gave me about immortality before you turned me? You said I would watch the world around me change while I stayed the same—that everything I loved about my human life would eventually shift or die. I _was_ listening."

He regarded her, impressed and a little touched by how deeply she had committed his words to heart.

"I made a choice," she said simply, her heart-shaped face turned up to his, her chin set with resolve. "I had the opportunity to stay human and keep the life I had, but I didn't. I've known my time at the library and with my friends was limited. Sure, it's a little sad, but I can't help feeling that there are more important things, now that we have a baby."

She struggled with her blankets, holding out an arm for the sleeping child, and Azrael reached into the crib to gently lift Cillian out and hand him to his mother, who cradled him with a loving warmth that both soothed and ached to watch.

Though her voice wavered just a little, the tone was firm and decided. "If keeping him safe means staying away, then that's what I'm going to do."

"You'll still be able to go back if you choose," he said, his fingertips combed soft, serene trails through the dark hair that draped past her shoulders. "It's merely that your time will have to be spent elsewhere, possibly even divided between locations."

For a moment she said nothing, and he could feel the emotions shift like the colors of spilled oil beneath her skin, wavering between bemusement and despair until she came to a quiescent center that seemed safe to keep.

To an untrained eye, the clutch of her hands to her baby's blankets would have gone unnoticed, it was so subtle. But he caught the tiny, reflexive flash of movement. And in some ways he felt there was a trace of foreboding about the sight of her fingers wound around the soft cotton, though by rights there was no reason for it.

"We'll deal with that as it comes," she replied quietly.

Her voice was muted with uncertainty, but she smiled when Cillian turned slightly in her grasp to mirror her actions and clutched at the neck of her robe with such small, insignificant and miraculous fingers. It was at that moment that the baby's eyelids slid slowly, cautiously open for the first time. The new eyes which blinked up at his parents were colored a violet as pure and bright as his father's in a mild mood.

Lilith's joy was completely unhidden, washing him with warmth when she exclaimed softly, "he has your eyes!" She looked up at him; her smile melting from enthused to affectionate when she saw the tenderness in the angel's face.

"For now," he corrected softly, "an infant's eye-color often changes before settling."

"Well, not this one's." Lilith tucked the blanket beneath Cillian's chin as he closed his purple eyes for sleep. "They're going to stay that way."

She yawned then, and her weariness was no longer concealed behind talk of other things. Resting her head against the winged back of the armchair, she told him quietly, "I think I'll try to nap a little more…"

"A wise idea," Azrael noted, touching his lips lightly to her smile before rising and returning to his desk, leaving her in the relative peace of the chair by the hearth.

She needed her strength, and it was strength she could only regain with rest. And as he finished one set of requisition forms for Balberith and Minos regarding the secondary trial for a soul that had been residing in Purgatory, he tuned in to the sweet glow of contentment and affection radiating from his ward as she drifted off into a quiet, greatly needed slumber.

After so much heavy talk, she was still able to smile for him. What a wonder a simple smile could be to a man desperately clinging to his hopes.

...

It had been quite a length of time since he had observed humans this closely without the intent to take one of their souls with him upon departure. The time he would have used to do so had been occupied by his less-than mild obsession with Lilith, leaving him little interest in watching anyone else. Before Lilith, his desire to observe in silence had been so low that where time had progressed from the early 1950s to the late '80s, there was only a wide, blurred space in his mind.

But he had to admit watching the pair of young humans perform their morning routine reminded him of ages that had been simpler, where life had been steady and rhythmic, attuned to the flow of nature around it. The ease with which the couple waltzed about the little West Seattle duplex reminded him of what Heaven had been like before the Rebellion; the effortless harmony there had once been.

It solidified Azrael's decision that Sarah Kennedy and her chosen partner would be well suited to the task he had in mind for them.

"Did you get the milk?" Mark's voice called from the front hall, his face poking around the stairwell to watch as Sarah masterfully shifted a pan of bacon from the stove and scraped three sizzling strips onto a plate already loaded with eggs.

"Not yet," Sarah replied, and smiled to herself when her housemate slid out the front door to retrieve the fresh cartons from the milk-box.

Her short, bright red hair striped with yellow and green bobby pins, Sarah was a cheerful example of summertime, her angular face bright with the joy that came from having a happy life. Azrael knew from his time watching Lilith that she possessed a wicked sense of humor and was most difficult to anger, that she was firm when it was called for, that she was affectionate and street-smart.

He could also see that while she was thrilled with the gifts life had given her, there was a small dark place where she kept things she felt were unrealistic wants and failings. She was afraid for Lilith, who had gone missing without a trace. She had begun to fear that her friend was in trouble, and despite her sunny mood he could still feel the distress inside her.

His recollection of Lilith's mention of miscarriage, her terror that she had almost followed in Sarah's footsteps caused him to open his magical veins. A thread of inquisitive magic looped about the woman's middle, sinking into her organs with an academic need to understand the traces of feeling he had felt flickering inside her. What he found there twisted his heart with sympathy.

She had what human doctors called an incompetent cervix, and to the highest level of risk. Had she tried to conceive, her body would lose the baby before it even had a chance of maturing to a point where it could survive outside the womb. The risks of miscarriage would be so high that the doctors had probably told her she may as well be infertile.

She felt she was broken, utterly incapable of giving herself the one thing she wanted above all others. And because she loved her partner so much, the fact that she would never have a baby with Mark was an invisible wound in her chest.

Azrael studied the tall, slender human woman with the bright smile as she accepted a kiss from her boyfriend, giggling when his new scruff of beard rubbed at her cheek, he wondered at how her misfortune could be such a blessing.

To the human feeling in him, it was awful and saddening. But to the tactician, the side of him that could be rational to the point of coldness, it was an opportunity.

In a way, he could give this woman what she so desperately wanted; a child. Despite her condition, she could still be a mother without the waiting game of adoption, without the strain of not knowing. He would provide the resources needed to feed, clothe, and raise the child he'd fathered even while he would envy her the interaction he would never get.

As he watched them eat breakfast, listened as they bantered playfully about the soccer camp where Mark was a counselor, he found himself warring with the knowledge that he didn't want to give them his son.

They were good people; he could read it in them. Mark Weston held the agreeable geniality of patience well-suited to a teacher who loved his job, children, and his girlfriend. Sarah Kennedy was a light-hearted dreamer with the perfect mixture of intellect and fun that would form itself warmly into a mothering instinct. And if he had to surrender his child to a pair of humans, these were the ones he would choose.

Mark rose from the table to rinse and stow his plate and fork in the dishwasher before slinging a wide, grass-stained duffle bag over one shoulder and sliding his feet into his shoes. "I'll be back around seven," he said, and Sarah looked puzzled.

"You were done at six last night," she noted, "emergency meeting?"

"Nah," Mark waved off her inquiry, "just an extra hour for a program put on by the high school teams. You still up for that picnic tonight?"

There was a hint of falseness to the man's tone, and Azrael's eyes performed a quick, compulsory scan of his frame, searching for hint of a reason. They lit upon the flyer tucked into an outside pocket of the bag, noticing that the bit of illustration visible was of a selection of simple but lovely engagement rings. There was no program; Mark was taking an hour to pick up a ring. He was planning to propose sometime soon…though not tonight, his nervousness stated.

Sarah's grin was infectious. Her anticipating joy so great that she might have already suspected her partner's plan. "You bet I am!"

By the time they had said their farewells, Azrael had made his decision. While marriage wasn't considered necessary to consecrate a relationship in the eyes of his maker, it was evidence that this couple had a loving, lasting attachment. Mark worried that it might be too early for Sarah's friends to accept it, but he felt secure in his choice. Sarah would accept because her connection to Mark was stronger and more real than with the men she'd had before.

Another human might have questioned the quick-paced forward momentum in such a fresh partnership. An angel's sight was keener, and Azrael, who had always had a knack for spotting flaws in human attachment, saw no reason to be concerned.

There was a good home to be had with them here, if only he could find the courage to place his treasure in their arms.

He waited until Sarah left for her shift at the library before setting quickly to work; preparing his arsenal with a care that he reserved for the most delicate of projects, for there were few things he considered more important.

The arrangement of spells it would take to blind the couple to the rapid growth and aging of their foster child would be complex and require many intricate, descriptive details. He would have to ensure that every individual person who came across Cillian would find him no different from any other child; that his growth was normal, and that any oddities that surfaced due to his parentage would be overlooked.

To bind and hold his spells in place for an indeterminate amount of time, he began with a powerful binding seal. With powder from crushed opal and quartz he drew the outline of the Greater Seal of Babylon with its concentric circles and angular pentacles, adding to it runes for power which would feed on itself to ensure it would never fail. Then he followed the stone powder lines with the steady drizzle of an odorless, colorless oil from a polished flask of rosewood. Oil that would help meld and solidify the myriad of spells together.

At the first touch of his magic, it burst into flame. The heat of it leapt and snapped like lightning across the designs to sear the air, hotter by far than any natural fire. Immediately he could feel the power of the Seal seeping through the house, settling itself into the beams and sheetrock and insulation, reaching as high as the roofing shingles and all the way down to the foundations; ready and awaiting the direction of his power.

"_Celo advenio adultus…__Presidia occultum maxima__…Demovere errans oculi—_"

He spoke the Latin words with rough deference to the rules of language, using only the most basic of the syllables to liberally imprint meaning into the signs he formed with quick fingers. Latin was an earthly language, but a powerful one, more easily formed into commands than the light, musical tongue that was natural to his kind.

The spells poured from him; spells to conceal the unusual, to obscure aging and blur the lines of what was real and what was assumed. Spells to preserve and protect secrecy, to divert wandering eyes. Spells to conceal Cillian's angelic blood until he matured the way nature dictated. Spells to keep him and his foster parents safe. They saturated the air, spilled from him and into the Seal, which dispersed them evenly and securely throughout the house until it began to overflow into the earth beneath it.

The knife he drew shone white along the blade, spell-kissed silver nicking each fingertip of his right hand until it ran with burgundy. "By Hand of Blood, I command thee." His right hand closed into a fist, gathering there the very heart of the Seal's central core, infusing it with his desire and his purpose.

With his own blood he would protect his son. Their shared blood would tie them together as resolutely as it would deny their connection.

A drop of blood splashed into the topmost circle of the seal. But rather than stain the floor, it was drawn into the roiling, burning lines, drank as though by thirst. The shudder that ran through the magic might have caused a younger or less formidable mage to falter or buckle, but Azrael stood firm through the scald of the magic being poured from his outstretched hands into the spells.

He remained until he had fed it enough of his power to drain the equivalent of three years' worth of electricity spent in a bustling American city. Until his vision began to swim.

Sinking to his knees, wavering only a little, he raised the knife and sent it whistling down to spear the outermost edge of the circle, carving a deep gouge in the laminate kitchen floor. A rippling wave of energy radiated outward from the point of impact like a small earthquake; unfelt by the unknowing human populous. When it had passed, all that remained of the flaming circles was the scorched outline of what had been powder and oil, tremulous and soaked with power.

"_Ave,_" Azrael whispered; a word of finishing, ending, blessing, and pleading. In response, the scorch mark faded until not a trace of it remained, leaving the kitchen untouched as though nothing had happened.

When he pulled the blade of the dagger from the floor the scar automatically sealed as though it had never been. But when he made to return it to the leather bag which held his supplies, he was surprised to feel a light tickle at the base of his nose, which he explored with a delicate touch of a hand.

His fingers came away bloodied, and he smiled thinly, faced with the results of his determination to make certain his son remained protected. The trickle of crimson was faint, however, proving that he hadn't drained himself completely. He had enough energy left to see to one more errand.

He penned a note for the tellers at a private Swiss bank – one of many where the angels stowed any money they happened to come across in their dealings with earthly life – instructing that a certain (and sizeable) amount was to be transferred twice annually into that of one Sarah Kennedy, soon to be Sarah Kennedy Weston.

During peaceful times, the guardians had taken to spending time living among humans, and occasionally working with them. Azrael himself had earned income to add to the collected funds in the past, from military salaries among other things. It was easy to access these funds with the proper codes, and the tellers would know by the seal on the envelope that they were dealing with a very old and respected client and honor the odd request.

Opening the kitchen window and summoning a crow to his hand from where several perched outside, he offered it the note, whispering instructions for delivery. He stroked its glossy black feathers, praising the simple spirit that so wanted to please him. With an affectionate squawk, it spread its wings and leapt into the air, eager to carry out the mission it had been granted.

He cast a final glance toward the place where the Seal remained, humming with magic. It would wait there in the house, growing stronger as it aged, until Cillian was brought; then it would wrap itself around the baby, enveloping him in the effects of his father's power.

And Cillian would be safe in ways no mortal could have imagined; a fact that gave the angel both great relief and great pain.

...

_Dear Sarah,_

_The first words I say to you have to be that I'm sorry. I wish I could tell you about all that's happened, where I am, or what I'm doing. But I can't. I've always kind of known that when we got older, things would change, but I didn't realize just how much or how quickly. _

_I know you've all been worrying about me. I also know there's really nothing I can say to make you stop. But I want you and the girls to know that I've made my own choices, that I'm safe, and that I'm somewhere with good people taking care of me. There are things I might have done differently if I had the chance; like not telling you all that I love you nearly often enough. And there are some things I regret. But I'm more content in some ways that I've been all my life. _

_This is where I explain the toughest of the many things I can't satisfactorily explain. Yes, it's my baby I'm leaving on your doorstep. He's the most precious piece of me, but I'm not in a position to keep him, because doing so would only put him at risk and that's something we can neither afford nor bear to do. _

_I know you, and I know how patient and sweet you are with children. I also know your backbone, and that you won't let kids run all over you. I know how wonderful a mother you would make, so I hope you don't mind my presumption that you might look after him. It breaks my heart to leave him, but there's no one else I would trust more with my baby than you. _

_Please try not to be too angry with me. I would tell you everything if I could, and why I can't if it was my secret to tell. I've given you everything I can, which I know isn't anywhere close to enough. I'm wishing you the best with Mark, who seems so perfect for you, and I hope he doesn't hate me too much for this. Please take care of Cillian, and love him if you can. And please remember that I'm safe and well, despite whatever it may sound like. _

_I miss you and your devious smile. I wish we could comb each other's hair and talk like we used to. I hope someday soon we'll be able to again._

_All my love._

— _Lilith _

_..._

The edges of the letter fluttered as she folded and tucked into an envelope. The cause could very well have been the soft breeze that threaded through the branches of the leafy sugar maples, twining its lazy way uphill from the coast to the immediate west. But it would have been a false assumption to make, because the source of the movement lay in the faint tremble of Lilith's hands.

If her companion noticed, he feigned otherwise, cooing instead to the child held in his arms. His quiet songs held only minimal interest for the baby, however, whose violet eyes were wide and studious as they drank in the world.

The little duplex was neat and clean, both sides mirror-images of each other but for the minutest of details; a van on one side, a small truck and a Jeep on the other. This side, with its mix of ornamental irises and tiny herb garden bed was the one of most interest due to the activity of bees busy at the flowers, a seemingly endless entertainment for new eyes. And it was this side that was most important.

The summer day suited the cheery pale blue paint and terra-cotta trim; a sultry, lasting kind of day. Yet the day felt as cool and dead as winter for the couple standing, unseen and unheard by playing children and lawn-keeping adult alike, upon the sidewalk. There could be no joy for them. Not when sunlight seemed like ice, color like shadow and endless gray.

"There," Lilith announced, folding the flap of the envelope inside to loosely seal it closed.

Azrael's quiescent gaze shifted to her, noting that she wouldn't quite meet his eyes, and the color washed with a hint of grey that hadn't been there just seconds before. "Ready?" He asked her softly. So softly in fact that the word was carried mainly by the air, shaped by the mere motion of his lips.

She was wordless as she nodded, her dark braid swishing as she turned to slip the envelop and its contents into his hand.

Despite the heat of July, Lilith clutched the draped cardigan close to her torso as though to fight off a chill, her skin pale enough to trick the eye into believing it icy with the sheen of sickness. The dappled shadows made by the broad, healthy leaves were becoming, especially to Azrael's eyes, but they didn't quite hide the very faint hollow to the skin beneath her eyes. Nor did he neglect to notice the fine edge of desperation smeared across her face.

By an infinitesimal degree, he lowered the angle of the cradle his arms made, allowing her close to touch a gentle kiss to the baby's forehead.

The moment was so incredibly tender, so sweet and warm that it wrenched at his heart. He could feel her; pain, terror, sorrow, guilt, grief, all twisted together in tangled knots. In that moment, her pain became his own, bleeding from beneath the bandages of resolve.

Almost as if he could sense the imminent future, Cillian's tiny hand squirmed free of his blankets and clutched at his mother's finger, his round little face contorting with an uncertain displeasure. She smiled then; a thin, wavering smile, trembling at the corners. Again she kissed him, her lips lingering against his cool, sweet-smelling skin, for a moment wrought with the hopeless knowledge that no matter how long she delayed, the outcome of this visit to the earthly plain was inevitable.

Azrael could see her working to renew her certainty that this was the right thing to do. Ever so gently she slid her finger from her baby's grasp and tucked his blanket back into place, sealing him in warmth.

The very tips of her fingers brushed Azrael's wrist in a silent imploration before withdrawing to grip her collar tightly. "Please…could you? I don't think I can—" She cut herself off before her words could dissolve into a sob.

He touched his forehead to hers, wordlessly telling her that he understood. She may love and trust her friend, realize the good prospect of their potential marriage, but he knew that sometimes mere fact couldn't protect or preserve every piece of rationality. The fact that she had come this far without a single doubt, protest, or fit of tears, proved her courage.

He drew away then, taking the path to the house on the left side of the divided driveway, his precious cargo held lovingly close to his chest. Even he, with his iron willpower and marble mask, found it difficult to conceal how very much he wanted to turn his back on what he was there to do.

Regret slowed his approach to the covered porch, and when he crouched to lay the baby gently down in his nest of blankets, Azrael found himself torn with such utter despair that it seemed to choke every part of him. Abandonment of something so cherished as a child grated against his nature. How could he even _consider_ leaving this priceless treasure here like an unwanted thing? This beautiful little person was a piece of him, a piece of Lilith; to be loved, not left.

But he had no choice. If he wanted his child to have a chance of surviving to reach adulthood, he had to perform an act that was seen as no less than despicable to his kind. Turning back now would serve no purpose but to risk Cillian being discovered, forcibly taken from them, and immediately slaughtered.

He would never let that happen. Not so long as his soul could still take solid form.

His hand brushed the fine sable brown hair that dusted his son's small head, bestowing a tender farewell and a gift of sleep to ease the transition from one home to another – one set of parents to the other.

Cillian's eyes fluttered, drooping heavily as he fought the compulsion to sleep. But he succumbed, the rhythms of his tiny body slowing to the steady pattern of slumber as his father rose and retreated back down the path to where Lilith waited, shoving the swift rush of pain and instinct back behind a curtain of marble and steel.

Lilith's arms were wrapped so tightly about her own torso that she might have been trying to restrain herself from racing for the porch and snatching back her child. He slid a steady arm around her shoulders, feeling some of the tension lessen from her slender frame.

Her voice was weak in her mouth when she spoke, and so muted that even his ears had to prick to catch it. "You'll look after him? Make sure he's—that he's ok?"

Judging by the ache between Azrael's ribs despite the shields, his heart could very likely have cracked open for her. He pulled her close, pressing her thin shoulders into his chest. He had explained to her in detail the numerous layers of protection he had laid into the house; how they would transfer to the people inside it once the contract between humans and child was undertaken, how safe it would be. Yet he didn't begrudge her pressing need to know. He would have too, in her position.

"As I looked after you when you were young," he promised softly, and when she nodded in reply, he lifted his hand to make a subtle rapping motion upon the air.

Echoed as it was on the door to the house, they merely had to wait for the burnt red barrier to swing back on its hinges and Sarah to peer outside with curiosity that molded into confusion. Then she glanced down, her brown eyes widening in a mixture of disbelief and alarm as she shrieked; "Mark! Oh my God—_Mark!"_

Visibly scrambling, she knelt to pick up the bundle of blankets and baby and clutched him to her chest. Frantically she scanned the street for the source of the unexpected delivery, her eyes reflecting the chaotic mixture of disbelief, anger, surprise, shock, sympathy and immediate fondness.

Azrael felt Lilith's fingers tighten upon the hem of his shirt.

The tall, sturdy form of her fiancé breeched the open doorway, his worry for Sarah eclipsed by alarm when he caught sight of the sleeping baby in her arms. "What the—"

Sarah had given up her unsuccessful search by then, her eyes filled with nothing but the baby and the triangle of white paper she noticed poking out from the mass of blankets that were dull and colorless against the brilliant green of her sundress. She gasped, "there's a note!" and Mark quickly held out his arms to take the bundle of infant so she could take the envelope.

Her eager, anxious fingers tore through the seal and crumpled a corner of the crisp off-white parchment of the letter as she yanked free and unfolded it to read it twice through.

The first reading went quickly, her eyes flashing across the paper, drinking in the familiar handwriting. The second time went more slowly, studying and imprinting the meaning of what she read; realization and disbelief tightening her jaw. Her brow furrowed, her lips sounding out the words _can't, safe, content, _and perhaps most importantly _we_, followed by a word that had no presence upon the page – _Adrian__._

"It's from Lilith…" she murmured, looking up from the letter to study the baby in Mark's arm, her fingers gentle as they filtered through his soft dark hair.

Mark's eyes widened with shock. "Lilith had a baby?" he asked, incredulous, "when?"

Sarah shook her head in explanation of unknowing. "It doesn't say. It just says that she can't keep him because it would risk his safety, even though it also says she's safe and well." Her eyes flickered back to the letter clutched in her other hand, fluttering in the warm coastal breeze. "It says his name's Cillian…"

For a moment that spread into several, neither human moved, wordless in their processing of emotions and thoughts so conflicted with question and fear for their friend. They stared at the tiny boy nestled in his soft dove gray blankets, each of them wrestling with things they didn't dare speak aloud.

Lilith's shoulders tensed beneath Azrael's touch, wound tightly with her certainty that any minute now Sarah would launch into a teary rant about how her so-called friend had betrayed her trust, purposely left her in the dark, and had lied through avoidance. A fear she had shared with him in the safety of their bed. Yet even as she turned to press her face into his chest, he saw the human woman straighten and fold the letter neatly to replace it in its envelope.

"Well," Sarah said cheerfully, "it's a good thing we both get raises this year!"

Mark's answering smile was only partially focused on her. His eyes were still fixed to the baby in his arms, soft with an affection that was both instinctual and personal, a wonder that even barren, they would still get to raise a child. He didn't notice, even when his fingers brushed the baby's cheek, that Cillian's skin was cooler than a baby's should have been.

"We'd better go before the stores all close," he added, looking up to see Sarah's face light up with adoration and happiness. "There's a lot of stuff we need!"

Wondering out loud which of the empty rooms they would turn into a nursery, Mark went back inside to get his keys and wallet, leaving Sarah on the porch, still clutching the letter.

Lilith looked up then, weary and sad, to watch her friend press the letter to her chest and whisper; "wherever you are, sweetie, we'll take care of him." Azrael could feel his ward's breath catch in her throat with a quiet sob.

Within moments the couple had climbed into Sarah's little red truck and set off down the street to pick up some necessities for the keeping of the new baby still sound asleep in Mark's gentle grasp. They would find, upon the arrival of a bank statement the next day for the deposit sum of twelve-thousand U.S. dollars into their joint account that they needn't scrimp to afford the climbing cost of food and clothing and diapers.

Sagging tiredly and weakly into his arms, Lilith rested her head against Azrael's chest and murmured amidst her exhaustion that she wanted to go home. He granted her wish and helped her to bed, handing her a cup of strong tea to both help her sleep and ease her still recuperating body, if not to heal the tiny fractures in her heart.

"At least they took it well," she said quietly as he slid into bed beside her. He pressed his lips to her brow, bidding her to sleep, and curled himself around her body, seeking the comfort of touch that he knew could only do so much to ease the pain throbbing in both their chests.

Only time could do that; and time was a long, agonizing treatment to such a deep and pitiless wound.

* * *

**Without further ado; apologies from the author! Seriously…I had such a difficult time with this chapter. It's unbelievable how many times I got stuck and holed up on lack of knowing how to go on.**

**I feel like the beginning scene is useless and pointless and sort of filler…but at the same time it feels like there are important details there; relationship, time passage, and plot carrying details, even if tiny. So, in that respect I'm pleased enough, even if there's more work that needs to be done. As to the last scenes; it's clear what the importance is. But holy CRAP was it hard to write, and I'm still not as happy as I feel I should be with the very last bit, the afterward of giving Cillian up. Maybe I'll go back and fix it up later…or maybe I'll keep it this way, to emphasize shock with briefness.**

**The next few chapters are going to exist mainly to give us a sense of time-passage in a way I hope doesn't seem either filler or too time-skip like. I don't want to use too many big time-skips with this story because everything's so volatile and edgy right now. We'll see if I manage ok. I hope this was worth waiting for –sigh- And I hope the next wait is less of one, but apparently I can make no promises.**

**Please take a moment to review for me, make my day and encourage me to try and write faster! Sometimes it works magic! I would be truly thankful.**

**To all of you reading, my thanks and my love to you. You're an amazing bunch of people.**

**Until next time!**


	19. Dearly Beloved

**Chapter 19**  
Dearly Beloved

Recommended Listening: "My Body is a Cage" by Peter Gabriel  
and "Hover (Quiet Mix)" by Trust Company

* * *

The pain woke him; dull and hard and throbbing deep in his chest. He jerked upright with a gasp, breath rushing into previously motionless lungs not because he needed it, but because the pain yanked it forcefully into him.

With the wrenching discomfort of something being rent clean through, the heart beneath his ribcage ached with the fury of a dying sun.

He pressed his palm into his chest, as though compression might alleviate some of that terrible, deafening hurt. Sometimes it had, in the past. He pressed until his fingernails dug raw, reddened crescents into flesh and tears blurred his vision. Jaw clenched against a cry, the breaths came short and sharp from between his teeth.

One more breath; just one more. Perhaps this time, it would soon abate and leave him in peace.

But the pain only seemed to worsen the longer he stalled, twisting at him until his nerves screamed and his muscles contorted under his skin in time to the steady, stabbing pulse. It deepened and spread, lengthening until each singular spasm of agony wracked him with shudders and ragged, choking gasps.

He could hardly remember what day it was or how long it had been since that awful moment when he had parted from his most precious creation. He couldn't recall what time or month it was. Nor could he remember the last day he'd gone without pain.

Stumbling half-blindly from the bed, he backed away from what he instinctively knew was the source and conduit of that familiarly sickening feeling of being torn into pieces from the inside out. The smooth stones of the wall were cool against the shoulders braced wearily against them. Distance, sure enough, lessened the force enough so that he could breathe again.

But as his eyes fell to the nest of soft sheets he had abandoned, it was not to look with relief, but with a stricken mix of yearning and despair.

The slope of Lilith's shoulder shone smooth and lily-white in the faint light from the candles he'd left burning to combat the destruction of her almost constant nightmares. They came to her in rapid repetition despite his herbal and magical attempt to block them, wreaking such havoc in her subconscious that she woke with noiseless screams, huddled in the blankets and unresponsive to anything he did or said. The only thing that seemed to permeate the shadows in her mind was light.

Now she lay still, exhausted from the damage so many sleepless nights had done to an already delicate health. Yet even this did little to comfort him. Though she slept, there was no knowing when she would wake, or if she would even see him when she did.

That was another thing he couldn't remember; the last time he had heard her speak. Such a worrisome symptom that he hadn't yet had the courage to contemplate it.

The faint glint of gold flashed at the curve of her neck, drawing his eyes so raptly that it was almost magnetic. Blessed gold; accursed gold. So beautiful and yet so infuriating. It was the gold that wracked him with such pain; or rather, amplified the pain he already felt into something overwhelming and unbearable.

Strict control over emotion and its results was something he normally possessed in great quantity, but some hurts cut too deep to be mastered. He had felt these affects before. Loss of such a magnitude collided with fear and with worry to create something monstrous and bitter, leeching his strength to a point where he could no longer function. And when unrest lingered just beyond the horizon, he could not afford to have anything less than complete control.

His mind made up, Azrael steeled himself to move, carefully maneuvering out through the bedroom door and down the darkened hall to his workroom. As the distance between himself and the key grew larger, the pain lessened by tiny, slivered increments; offering a relief which slowly spread.

The spherical crystal suspended from the sloped ceiling swelled with light upon his entry, and he approached the far corner of the cluttered counter to the shelf set into the wall there, upon which was seated a single box.

While deliberately placed to go unnoticed when focus jumped from material jumble to the rack of blades hung above it; the box was an elaborate piece of artwork the beauty of which was revealed when he took it down from its perch. It was crafted of an ebony burnished with the faintest of reddish hues, gently curved at all sides with a flat, squared lid.

It might have looked ordinary, a pretty ornament in which to store something of equally little use. Yet it was within the gold scrollwork at its edges and topmost surface that betrayed its true value in motionless stories; some of them merely decorative, some inscribed with the design of a heart-shaped seal. The intricacy of the knot-work around the keyhole was intended to deceive and confuse. But it took no more than a touch of his finger to undo the complex locking system of magic and clockwork.

For him alone would it open so easily; and only when empty, for the cargo it had been crafted to keep was too valuable to be guarded with less security.

Once open to the bed of black velvet which blanketed the interior, he lifted his hands to his chest, cutting the brief flare of pain with a harsh exhale before the heart was pulled from the confinement of his body. With the severity of a noise brought to silence, the pain ebbed from his senses until it was no more. Then there was nothing but the soft blue-violet glow of the heart cupped in his hands.

He regarded it with uncertainty, torn between his choices.

And yet, in truth, he had no other choice, even if it gave him pause. To isolate himself from feeling for the sake of rationality was important, some would say necessary; but he knew very well that such an isolation could result in something he dreaded beyond most other things.

Since it was proximity that did the worst damage, he had to minimize his contact with the key that gifted access to the deeper, human-tied feeling that sparked the pain. But he could not be distance for too long; otherwise the cold would begin to creep back into his veins, leaving him little but ice and shadow. A cold that would likely be hastened by the severity of his turmoil.

And that cold could not be allowed to rule him again.

With a subdued sigh, he lowered the glassy, stone-like organ onto the velvet lining of the box, where it sat in a muted kind of splendor, oblivious to the agony it caused. When he lowered the lid, the locks clicked instantly into place, the mechanisms wrapping between two layers of wood to seal the box against penetration of any kind. Powerful magic guarded it, cast with power from several formidable angels, and yet it was so deceptively vulnerable.

For just a moment he rested his palm against the gold-leafed lid, feeling the swirl of magic inside the wood and beyond it, where the subtle beat of his heart matched a pace that only faintly echoed in his chest.

Tomorrow he would return it to his body. But every third day he would seal it away there, to alleviate the devastating suffocation of fear and anguish.

He replaced the box upon its shelf, tucked out of light and line of sight, and retreated back to the bed, where Lilith curled, sleeping as deeply as the dead. The thought struck him with a lurch of discomfort, and as he slipped in beside her he drew her near, holding her close enough to draw in the rhythm of her breath. Her warmth eased his instinctive concerns; her nearness combating the faint echoes of misery proximity to the key still brought him.

Yet as he watched her, unable to sleep for the thoughts still raging inside his mind, his eyes began to harden with a nearly untraceable sheen of iron. Affection was there, behind the veil of coolness, but it was now a faint undercurrent, a background harmony to a melody that had turned monotone and gray.

Absent his heart, he was more Death than Azrael then. And while he still understood his link to the woman in his arms, it was with a darker, less clear distinction of what was real and what was good.

When they both rose in the morning, he for visitations and she for an appointment with Pandora, he was too far gone to comprehend the danger in her lack of voice, or the vacancy in her eyes.

...

"Azrael _Darine_—"

"Hmm?"

Cassiel paused just inside one of the three open archways leading into the alcove, his eyes upon his general, purpose in his mind.

As though he had heard nothing, Azrael's body continued to twist and bend in the lyrical defensive Kata, a pattern-dance choreographed with the intent to practice and exercise fighting skill when there was no partner with which to spar. Flesh and muscle alternated smoothly from one posture to another, back and forth and around the fire kept ever-burning upon the shallow plinth at the center of the room.

To all appearances, even despite the quiet sound of acknowledgement, he seemed not to notice his lieutenant was even there. An oddity for an angel that was normally so polite. Cautiously, warily, the guardian entered the alcove.

The chamber had been formed from the same stone that had built several spiraling staircases which led up and down the levels of the Eyrie. It was a small, circular shelter tucked between the pathways; a spot for respite inside a dwelling intended as fortification against assault.

The stone had been shaped so skillfully and deliberately that the runes carved into the angular pillars seemed almost like the texture of the material itself, molded and edged with such graceful delicacy that it seemed a shame that the round room was mostly concealed by the thick foliage of the trees. The space was popular for meditation and deep thought; and while it was not altogether unusual, Cassiel wasn't sure if he could remember his general pursuing metaphysical meditation with quite such a coolly brutal purpose before.

Not only did he not pause to address his lieutenant, Azrael moved with a deliberate force, as though he almost wished there was something pressing at his defense so he could strike back.

Cassiel watched with a rising level of concern as the pale seraph's torso twisted and his arms sliced the air, forming a complex combination of rapid blocks. What should have been light and graceful in practice was too harsh, too tactical. It was evident that Azrael was not quite himself.

Then, with a final, balanced pivot, the seraph stilled, straightened, and turned to face the other angel. "What is it, Cassiel?"

With a swift chill, Cassiel's gaze took in the icy marble cast of Azrael's features, the crystal-fine lavender of his irises, and fought the shiver of dread that threatened to spread across his mahogany skin. He knew this face; this mask of blank, unfeeling coldness consumed with empty, emotionless fact. He knew the bitter cold that could so swiftly swing to a rage which encompassed the very meaning of wrath.

The detachment protected Azrael from the distraction and potential pain of emotion, but the price was high.

Death's great strength had always lain in a lack of bias. It was never segregated; it didn't judge, didn't pick and choose, didn't let itself be tempted, swayed, or tamed. But with these attributes came an unyielding hardness, a merciless lack of compassion that, in something that required benevolence for sustenance, was devastating. He forgot the importance of gentility, of kindness. And Death could not be cold and cruel. He must be merciful, even if it pained him.

The necessity of dying had been crafted for humans, and demanded its balance like everything else. But it was, in a way, unnatural according to what had been intended when humans had been created, and Azrael had been left limping, trying to balance the weight of an awful, desolate duty and a nature that was warm and loving.

It was the very reason he was allowed to know and feel the levels of human affection normally absent in their kind.

With the birth and maturity of Azrael's human ward, a charge that had briefly been his own, Cassiel had hoped this side of his general had diminished. He had hoped the solace of a mate would ease Azrael's suffering. If only things were that simple.

The pressures of waiting and planning for the countless possibilities of combat being started and trying to avoid it on top of his regular duties could not be easy to bear, especially when these things took him away from that one source of comfort. Azrael answered the demands made of him, regardless of the cost. In some ways, this wasn't necessarily a good thing.

Cassiel remembered the last time his general had reverted to the shield of his deathly senses all too clearly. He had torn through human battlefields with such brutal efficiency that it had been frightening.

Despite the fact that it was both terrible and mournful, Cassiel didn't allow his feeling to show. With a respectful incline of his head, he said, "Uriel's emissary had delivered the Grimoire, as you requested."

Azrael's nod was short enough to broach curtness. "Where is it now?"

"In the workroom—"

Without a word the seraph disappeared, traveling with lightning speed to the mentioned location. Having not been dismissed, Cassiel followed immediately, twisting the fabric of the air around him and reordering it into the form he desired. When he opened his eyes, it was to find himself in the officers' workroom, walls swathed in gauzy drapery and counters stacked with books, tools and supplies.

He joined a still somewhat pale Ezekiel at the far side of the central table upon which the heavy book lay in its wrapping, untouched by any hand for a stretch of years he wasn't sure anyone could count.

Even from inside its heavy wrapping the book seemed to ooze malice and hostility. Perhaps that was mostly because he knew what lay beneath, but the silvery dragonskin itself belied the power that still had the potential to leak from the book's pages. The skin, which Crown Prince Beelzebub had willingly stripped from his own secondary form, was a strong protection, but they wouldn't be handling it without gloves.

Ezekiel held out a pair of thin, cloth half-gloves to Azrael, who donned them with a cool silence which Ezekiel regarded with mild alarm. He glanced, eyebrows raised, toward his fellow lieutenant. Cassiel returned the look with the tiniest of shrugs, conveying that he no more knew the cause for the seraph's reversion than Ezekiel did.

Of course, they could hazard a guess. Each being familiar with the prophecy of the Messiah, they had received the news of their general's having fathered a son with both awe and joy. Yet the risk to the child's life, as well as that of his mother, due to what such a conception stood for had dampened the good tidings. Even oath-bound as they were to secrecy (vows they had taken of their own volition), the chance that something bad might happen was great enough to cause strain.

But the grief of being forced to give up the child because of that risk was something beyond their capacity to understand. And it was likely this loss that festered at the root of Azrael's unconscious choice to slip behind his deathly shield.

Neither angel judged or blamed him for it, but that didn't lessen their concern.

Wearing a similar pair of gloves, Ezekiel reached out and untied the cord holding the skin wrapping in pace. The silver scales – smooth, flat, underbelly scales like butter-soft leather – glistened as they were folded back from the tome. It was cloth-bound with fine linen of a green so dark and mottled in hue that looked as though it had been stained with something distinctly unpleasant.

The book needed no embossed title, no gold or silver-leafed decoration to identify it. The animosity radiating from its pages did enough to proclaim its name to the world.

The Grimoire had been compiled by Azrael and Uriel with the aid of several demon mages a few hundred years after the Rebellion. Its contents: a catalog of signs, spells, and uses of dark magic, thorough and vividly, painstakingly detailed. The two angel composers had poured enough magic into its creation for it to have become a source of its own power.

While it wasn't dangerous, per-say, but it possessed a tendency to react to the spark of magic in its handlers to sometimes disastrous results. Hence the precaution against its contact with bare skin.

Azrael's touch was delicate with care as he opened the book to the front page, where he paused, laying the tips of all five fingers against the blank sheet of vellum. "The Abyssus Technique," he stated clearly, and lifted his hand.

As soon as his skin left the surface, the pages began flipping of their own accord, so quickly that they rustled with a steady, ghostly sound of page upon page, until coming to rest upon the requested entry.

_- Abyssus Technique for Persuasion -_

_Used in rare cases of torture with the intent to procure information.  
Unravels the fabric binding the subject's body matter by varying increments depending on intent and desired affect. Can be manipulated by increments of force (retracted and reapplied) to increase or decrease pain and damage caused._

_Removed by extracting the curse-core. Flesh and skin magically grown back will continue to decay unless healing and cleansing spells are coupled with a binding seal set directly into the body.  
Requires a steady and sizeable supply of power to perform to maximum affect, occasionally calling for one caster and one supplier._

_Performed with incantation: words unknown, any further aide or ingredient unknown.  
_

"The question remains," Cassiel mused, having examined the entry in ponderous silence, "of those on Arawn's list, who has the skill and the knowledge to mask the casting signature with the mark of another demon?"

There was a short stretch of silence as Azrael weighted the names they had received against the impressive difficulty of what would have been done. It was a complex and convoluted feat to replace one's own magical signature with someone else's. A rarity even among the angels, of the top forty angelic mages only eight possessed the ability to do so, and of that eight only three could erase even the most minimal traces left by their own mark_._

Finally the seraph answered, "The two most likely not to attack us." He indicated two names on Arawn's list; Mastema and Cain. "Mastema supports us when he deviates from neutrality, and Cain has never used his power in such a way."

"Never before, anyway," Ezekiel added, seeming not to notice when Cassiel's broad shoulders stiffened beside him.

With a forbidding hush, Azrael slowly lifted his head to look at his second lieutenant. There was a subtle, unintended menace layered between the rings of pale color in his irises, an authority that was ruler of its own realm and did not tolerate challenge.

"Are you questioning my judgment?" Though hushed, the seraph's tone contained a deadly sharpness.

Ezekiel offered a shallow bow, bracing his palm against his stomach when the layered silk and flax-cloth brace pinched at his still damaged midsection. "No, my lord," he denied, "but I do think we should be sure."

The tiny show of pain gave Azrael pause. Almost imperceptibly the hardened sheen to his eyes and face softened, reflexively stepping back from the rocky precipice of Death's volatile temper. Upon seeing it, Cassiel felt something tight inside himself relax. It was good to know that his general hadn't sunk so far into Death to completely forgo his compassion.

"Never before, no," Azrael agreed quietly, "and the likelihood of this changing now is slim, though I will make inquiries. As we've not yet crossed the line between scuffling and outright warfare, I would imagine it's still possible to do that."

While he nodded understanding, Ezekiel reached behind him to pull one of the low wooden stools forward so he could sit, clearly hurting more than his stoically still face would imply. While his bone structure had been successfully regrown, the flesh around it still wouldn't fuse, leaving gaping, open holes in his torso that continued to fester and bleed. They had resorted to cutting away the flesh that tried to rot, cleansing and wrapping it in the meantime until a cure was found.

Plenty of binding spells and seals had been used in the multiple attempts to heal him. According to the entry in the Grimoire, the seal needed to be set directly into the flesh; something no one would have tried. Seals delivered strong, concentrated doses of magic, and to insert such a high charge into a body often caused nausea, dizziness and excruciating amounts of pain.

But considering the pain Ezekiel had already undergone, what was a bit more?

"How bad is it?" Cassiel asked, pressing his fingers lightly along the line of the other angel's shoulder blades and upper spine.

"About a seven," Ezekiel admitted, and only the tight set of his jaw displayed anything but calm.

With a careful consideration for its finicky personality, Azrael closed the weighty volume and tossed his gloves into the bin which marked them for washing. "Let's get that taken care of," he said gently. "Do you think you can phase side-along?"

After a moment's thought, Ezekiel shook his head. "I don't think I'd make it."

"That's all right." Cassiel bent to thread one thick, powerful arm high around Ezekiel's back and helped him to stand. Ezekiel's weight had diminished since being cursed, his torso thinned and more angular than it should have been; but he hooked his elbow around Cassiel's wide shoulders above folded smoky-black osprey wings and hobbled along without so much as a murmur of complaint.

Though both Cassiel and Azrael noticed the shudder of his weakened legs and the tremor in his aura, they said nothing as they guided Ezekiel out from the workroom and up toward the medical wing.

The stairs were tricky, each heavy, stone-based step sending shocks of agony up through Ezekiel's body to center the ragged remnants of his abdomen. It took Azrael's assistance on his other side to get him up the double flight of steps and out onto the lowermost terrace, where the mid-morning sky was dissected into panes of misty pink and blue by the fortifying pillars set deep within the mountainside.

As the shadows were long with the rise of the late summer sun, the light so brilliant and the mist so filmy with the slight chill of the heightened elevation, none of the angels noticed the anomaly right away.

Strategically speaking, it would have been an advantageous moment to strike. Perhaps if one of the generals of Heaven's host had officiated participation in a war via retaliation to any of the attempts at initiation, an attack would have come. But none did. There was nothing but the quiet of the mountain air, a quiet breeze and the faint twitter of birds saying final farewells to the young raised that spring. And a jagged, broken line of shadow at the point just nigh of the valley's edge.

It was Ezekiel who spotted it, assumedly distracting himself from a particularly sharp jolt to the middle. His forest green eyes fixed at the wavering line, narrowing to hone in to the spot as he ventured, "What is that?"

The eyes of his partner and leader flew to the area of his focus, gazes instantly sharpened and attuned to the unusual dark, patterned streak just visible through the mist. Yet while the mist was I constant motion, warping the contour of the landscape, once a few moments passed and the shapes remained an unmoving constant, the cause became clear.

"Scouts," Cassiel affirmed, a grim cast to his strong dark face, "or guards. Set to watch our movements, no doubt."

Quietly, Azrael asked, "can you sense any activity?"

Tapping into his affinity for mild clairvoyance and premonition, Cassiel cast out an inquisitive hand of magic, feeling for advancement, motion, or speech and fueling it with a sense of need. It threaded through the ranks of motionless demons of a humanoid form. "None. They're just camped and waiting. Mostly Shedu and Raum, but I can sense one or two Rakshasas among them."

He could feel Azrael's demeanor crackle with frost as clearly as he could see the seraph's white wings flex and stiffen.

The silence that overtook them was weighted with the undertone of grim meaning behind the message sent by the presence of these demons in particular. This was not the idle maneuver of a leader either childish or bored. The main body of the second Holy War had begun in a similar fashion. Enemy watching enemy, predator and prey. Though which was prey and which was predator was debatable.

"You know it's serious when they start deploying the Vhish." Ezekiel's tone was gloomy, and while tinged with irony, correctly articulated the thoughts of all three observing officers.

Cassiel snorted and renewed his effort to bring the wounded hawk to the medic bay, gently encouraging Ezekiel back into the secure, inner hallways of the fortress. But Azrael's eyes, still riveted to the shadowed line of scouts, grew just a little bit darker.

...

Compared to even the hardships of war, genocide, plague and other such dark things, Azrael didn't think he had ever felt so utterly low than he did those three months. Nothing before had brought him to such black, suffocating despair; it was a shadow digging into his shoulders, a weight that clawed and tore at him with the will to rend him apart. And he was virtually helpless to stop it.

It was not solely his demon to kill.

The flow of visitations had been heavy due to steady conflict in Egypt, Israel and Pakistan, human wars over political strain and endless, useless dispute over land. The kind that ended so much life for so little reason. That when added to the task fortifying the Eyrie's defenses, one block of stone at a time (a project which seemed justified given that they were being watched), and frequent trips to look in on Cillian, the last few weeks had not allowed much time for anything else, and paperwork was steadily piling up his desk-space.

When it got to the point where he could no longer sit down without being nearly at chest-level with paper, it was time to tackle the mess. Thus he booked a few days of leave, delayed a couple hundred visitations, and sat down to do so.

The pattern of the work itself didn't bother him. There was a soothing quality to the shuffle of parchment and the delicate scratch of a quill, a solace in the habit, the rhythm of the progress. Yet as the hours crept by, his flourishing signatures became less and less light-handed and his movements heavy and sluggish compared to his usual grace. It seemed as though the force of his formidable will had been sapped of any strength it once had.

This was not some symptom of a new ailment. He had been fighting the mental and emotional fatigue since the summer's end; when the air had been scorched with heat, when he had come home one day to a realization that something was very, seriously wrong.

Lilith had been sitting at the window he'd had installed in one of the rooms off his study, staring out at the grim terrain, unmoving, glassy-eyed, and voiceless. Stricken with fear and with horror he had pleaded with her to tell him what was wrong, what he could do to help her shoulder the grief he knew was at the root of her sorrow and evil dreams. She'd had no answer. In fact, he wasn't sure if she had even been capable of answering, she was so deeply locked inside of herself.

Even now, when her eyes drifted across his face, he knew she couldn't really see him.

Physically speaking there was nothing wrong with her, but that didn't explain the way she wandered through his rooms like a faded, waifish phantom. It was all she ever did; trudge aimlessly through his rooms with all the purpose of a woman doomed to the gallows, dragging her feet, seeing nothing, nary a word passing her lips.

It was enough to break his heart to see her slowly wasting away right before his eyes. As the weeks crawled by, her cheeks began to hollow and skin to pale to a white that was no longer merely fair, but fragile. Her arms and waist became so thin that he was soon forced to feed her intravenously while she slept…when she slept.

Her grief weighed so heavily that she couldn't even cry.

He had tried so many times to offer her peace. He had tried every means he knew to get her to release the anguish before it killed her, but nothing had succeeded. In the end, not only was he stricken with the loss of his son, now he was slowly but surely losing the one thing that stood between him and the black void of chaos.

The day that when he had spoken and she hadn't replied, when he had whispered her name and she hadn't looked up; these had occurred almost _three_ _months_ ago. Setting aside his initial response of panic, he had put it down to shock and denial; certain that someday soon she would break her stunned silence and burst into tears, bleed out the poison of grief and he would finally be able to comfort her. But thus far, she hadn't yet.

Humans always talked about how much a child needs its mother, but never just how much a mother needs her child, and he was the one who had taken her baby away from her. That was what cut at him the most deeply.

Every once in a while, as he wrote and signed and sorted, he would sit back in his chair, palm pressing briefly to the spot above the incessant ache within his chest. It stung so fiercely still, even with the periods of emptiness from the removal of his heart that he used to self-medicate. The pangs seemed almost worse now, due to her pressing silence. An endless pain he couldn't heal.

Under simpler circumstances, he would have put his foot down. He would have reached into her mind and shoved her subconscious out of the way so she could _feel_. But she had buried herself too deeply in her sorrow. There was no way to breach defenses so fine and delicate without breaking her mind, which was something he simply couldn't risk.

Instead he absorbed himself in his work to distract from his pain day after impossible day, not sure how much longer he would be able to withstand it before he broke down completely.

Every moment that passed without her leeched the life from him, but it was because of her unfelt agony that he retained the sanity to keep from drowning in his melancholy. He wouldn't have pretended that his morale was anything but miserable, he wouldn't have forced a smile or claimed to be perfectly fine, but neither would he shut himself away from the world. If he did, he would only succeed in shutting out the woman who needed him now more than she ever had before.

Ultimately the decision was up to Lilith. She could very well waste away, unable to cross the bridge between denial and acceptance until it eventually devoured her, or she could pull through like she had done so many times before. She was stronger than she gave herself credit for, but what if this was just too much for even her resilient spirit to take?

What he wanted to do more than anything was corner her and force her to cry it out, to take her by the shoulders and give her a good, hard shake. He wanted to admit that it was his own selfish fear of losing her which had led to her suffering, wanted her to see him fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness. He wanted to save her as she had saved him. But he couldn't unless she let him.

He could make himself as available as possible and it would mean nothing if she didn't have the consciousness to see it.

He had no choice but to be strong. All he could do was limp onward, do his best to keep shoving the fear, the guilt and the pain aside in order to keep living another day. He had done his best to keep positive; but he was a pessimist by nature, and as tirelessly and desperately as he prayed, his hope had been wearing thin.

Because of this, when the door leading from the presently empty chamber that had once been her bedroom opened, he expected nothing. He glanced up from his work, and when her worn green eyes met his and he realized that she was seeing him – truly _seeing_ him – for the first time in so many weeks, he thought his heart might have stopped.

The mind was a delicate thing, especially after such a prolonged period of intense shock. So when he put down his quill and pushed his chair back from the desk, he moved slowly to keep from starting her. He made it very clear however that she had his full attention.

"I'm sorry—I…" She stopped, taking a shallow breath in the hopes of soothing a voice that was hoarse and cracked from lack of use. Yet Azrael was certain that he had never heard a more beautiful sound. "Am I…disturbing—?"

She didn't finish, but he wasn't sure she could have even if he hadn't interrupted. She seemed to be having trouble stringing her words together, as though she was still confused by the heavy blow to her heart.

He held out his arms to her, his voice as gentle as he had the power to make it, both imploring and inviting. "Come here."

He could see her throat work and as he watched with surge of relief that nearly choked him, tears welled in her tired, heartbroken eyes and dripped down her cheeks like blood from a wound. The moment the first sob was torn from her lungs with such despair that it was as though her heart was being ripped from her chest, he knew that he no longer need fear losing her.

She stumbled across the floor, the weight of her body falling against his legs as she collapsed upon the floor in front of his chair and clung to him as though he were her only anchor to stability. Wordlessly, he reached down, gathered her in his arms and cradled her in his lap, allowing her to wrap her arms around him and press her face into his neck.

Just as Azrael knew to be pleased with this step toward healing, he felt like committing murder in order to punish the source of her tears.

He had told her once that he couldn't bear to see her cry, and it had been true. Every sob that shook her trembling body tore through his heart, every shuddering breath she took raking his soul with agony; but he endured because in grief they were exactly the same. He may not have needed tears to show it, but with every sob she bled the poison from his veins just as well as her own.

Her fingers clawed against his shoulder, forcefully enough to broach the threshold of pain. So he folded her hand in his own while the other smoothed up and down the curved line of her back to soothe the violent tremor of her sobs.

"I'm s-sorry," she choked, trying to pull away, "I just—"

"Shh," he hushed her, gently pressing her face back into the curve of his neck, "Don't you dare apologize to me for crying. I took your child away from you, and you say you're _sorry?_ For what—reacting like any mother would? For _mourning?"_

Lilith's body went limp, her grip around him growing suddenly slack and weak, which would have alarmed him if he hadn't been able to taste the exhaustion on her breath. Her free hand slid from the back of the chair to lightly touch his hair, her lips brushing against his tear-soaked throat in something almost like a kiss.

"Don't say things like that," she told him, something akin to pleading in her tone, "don't try to make yourself a villain."

"Why shouldn't I take the blame for what I've done?" he retorted sharply, the pain raw in his voice.

She knew him well enough to be able to tell that he was truly upset, which was probably why her grip tightened around his hand.

"Only a monster tears an infant from his mother's arms, and that is _exactly_ what I did. Perhaps not through any desire to, but I'm the reason for your pain. If I hadn't been so—so _paranoid_…" The words faded, his furious, guilt-ridden self-loathing too powerful for any of the languages he knew, and finally he settled for crushing her even more tightly to his chest. "I am _so _sorry. So sorry I can barely _breathe._"

For two whole tense minutes she was utterly silent, her sniffles the only sound to pierce the suffocating quiet. When she spoke, she sounded even more broken then she had before. "He's your son too, Azrael."

He made a noise somewhere between a hard laugh and a cry of anguish before cutting it off with a sharp clench of his teeth.

_Damn_ the little Empath! This wasn't about him; this was about _her_ pain, her empty arms and the baby that should have been in them, and she took the first opportunity she got to twist the situation to _his _feelings.

Yet it was more than that. In her own special way she was telling him not to apologize when he hurt as much as she did, when he had done everything in his power to change what could not be changed. She was telling him that she forgave him, and with the same breath she denied his blame.

"Silly, wonderful girl," he muttered into her hair. "You have every right to mourn."

"I don't want to mourn any more." She slipped her arms around his waist, settling her cheek against the arc of his collarbone. "Cillian's not dead, it's not like I'll never see him again. I just…" She broke into silence, quickly pressing her lips together to restrain the reflexive sob and hoping he hadn't noticed.

He _had_ noticed.

"You just want your baby," he finished for her. His eyes were saddened as he gently stroked her soft, dark hair.

"_Our_ baby," she corrected quietly.

"So do I." His lips brushed her temple, feeling the flutter of her breath against his throat. "He's doing well. Sarah and Mark are good with him, very patient, very loving. I wish I could say knowing it eases the pain."

Lilith's arms tightened around him, just enough to portray both anguish and gratitude. "I didn't mean to go to pieces like that," she said hesitantly, worried that he might rebuke her for coming too close to an apology. "But—" her body jerked with the convulsion of a swallowed sob; the kind that could only be subdued for so long. "I need one more night. Is that ok?"

His smile both fondly empathetic and desperately forlorn, he rose with her cradled in his arms, and for once she didn't fight to be put down.

He didn't answer her question with words, but from the sound of his breathing alone she could sense that he had no objection to being her pillow, not one complaint to having his shoulders drenched with her tears. She wanted one more night to bleed, to continue down the path toward rebuilding her heart. It was something he was more than willing to give her.

Wrapping her in soft sheets and warm blankets, he let her little fingers curl into his shirt and his hair, let her pour her sorrows into him to be sifted and tucked tenderly away. He didn't care that the salt from her misery left a temporary stain on the cloth draping his chest, nor that she occasionally scratched grooves into his arms when her gasps were particularly harsh. Eyes closed and heart wide open, he held her through her cries and her hiccoughs, hands gentle and lips soft.

And when she ran out of tears, unable to do much more than cling to him and take comfort from his embrace, his shared her sorrow. He sang her to sleep, rocking her softly and enfolding her in warmth and tenderness. He may not have been able to cure her pain, but he could do much to help mend her cracked and splintered soul.

Together, he knew, they could withstand almost anything; even the loss of something so invaluably precious.

* * *

**A little quicker update this time! I'm so happy! I would've been even quicker, but...**

**Long story short, I was writing a scene originally intended for this chapter which featured another flashback to WWII and a pretty horrific battle with a bit of insight into Azrael's pain-avoidance techniques, as I described in the first two scenes, and was meant to be something of a time-skip buffer since we just jumped ahead by three months. However, the depth of the scene sort of ran away with me and turned into something that eventually seemed...too intense, too much for what I was intending to pull out of it. Maybe I'll include it somewhere else later...who knows. I sort of hate myself because I literally half killed myself to write it and then couldn't use it.**

**ANYWAY. Enough of that. Next chapter is already written (one of those I wrote when I had massive inspiration right-here-right-now-must-write), but it's in need of serious, serious editing. So I'm not sure when it'll be up, but it won't be two months, I can promise you that!**

**I wanted to be done by Valentine's Day, because it would've been so fitting...maybe I'll be able to pull it off!**

**I'll hush now. I know I'm horrible with updates and every one of you probably hates me a little for being that way, but life and a quality-substance-perfectionist mentality do tend to get in the way. Please consider reviewing before you go; it means the world to me to know someone is actually enjoying what I write.**

**Thank you all, for patience and for your love.**

**Until next time!**


	20. Taste of Moonlight

**Chapter 20**  
Taste of Moonlight

Recommended Listening: "The Drumming Song" and "Howl" by Florenceand the Machine,  
and "Message for the Queen" by Tyler Bates [from 300]

* * *

"You don't _have_ to do this, you know," Pandora insisted for about the fifth time that hour alone. "Believe me; Azrael would understand if you didn't want to participate this year."

Tucking a few flyaway strands of brown hair out of her face, Lilith straightened to give the other woman a tiny smile. "Maybe I should pretend you're referring to helping reorganize your medicines." Pandora laughed, a little sheepishly and she admonished kindly, "honestly, it's ok. I was hesitant when he told me, but now I think it might be good for me to do."

"Are you positive? It might be a little strenuous for someone unaccustomed to dealing with a lot of magic—"

"For the last time, I'll be fine. Now stop heckling me or I'm going to whack you with these poppy seeds," the brunette threateningly brandished the jar she held, the glass container large in her slender hand, tiny dark seeds rattling sharply inside as thought to accentuate the point she made.

"All right, all right!" Pandora's laughter lit her silvery eyes with a luminous kind of joy, delighting in the gentle banter. She turned back to her shelves and began moving a selection of small wicker baskets loaded with twigs, dried leaves and shards of bark from various origins to a new place.

"Sorry for pestering," the medic noted softly, her expression sheepish, but earnest. "I just want to make sure, because if you get overwhelmed or pass out, I'll be the one to blame."

The other and far younger woman scoffed, slapping a fresh new label across the jar of seeds and writing a tidy caption, admonishing kindly, "no one's going to blame you for anything." Picking up the next jar lining the heavy bamboo box she referenced the list of herbs and ingredients for the contents, wrote a new label, and shelved it in its proper place. "Azrael's not going to bite your head off because I was stubborn. You know that just as well as I do."

At first Lilith had treated Pandora with a certain amount of caution, as she had most of the other immortals she met, treading carefully for fear of causing some social upset. She had taken a bit of time to warm up to the other female. But she had; and soon enough Lilith had made a fast friend in the demoness.

When the leftover pains and emotional aches from giving birth had begun to heal, Lilith had taken to performing small tasks for the medic. Tidying, testing the health of the herbal stores, re-stocking the exam room, clearing up messes, among other things. Pandora rather enjoyed the company, as did Lilith, who was quite happy for something to do and someone to talk to when her guardian was otherwise occupied.

They were a balanced match and of a similar mind, especially when it came to Lilith's thought that learning medicine might be a wise idea.

Pandora hadn't been the only demon to witness the positive impact Lilith had made on the angel of death, but she was the first to see her potential as an asset in terms of practical use. Medics were always in demand, even when their numbers hardly ever changed. Since Lilith was a quick learner and intelligent besides being likable, gentle-natured and tenacious; Pandora was not above snatching her up as a pupil.

There was but a single problem, however, and that problem was the foundation for the demoness's concern for her once-mortal friend. That problem was grief over the child she had birthed.

Pandora knew that giving up her only child had been the hardest choice Lilith had ever had to make. For someone who had never expected to marry or have children, the girl had taken an intense emotional blow from leaving her newborn baby on another woman's doorstep, even if that woman had been her closest mortal friend. It had devastated her, enough to send her into a state of shock so catatonic that nothing had been able to breach it. It had taken months to break her out of it.

The medic had never seen Azrael so utterly low. Not even the darkest periods of his past had quite compared on the same level as this, and, honestly, it was a near-miracle the loss hadn't torn their relationship apart.

Even now that Lilith had regained her awareness, had begun to eat and talk again, the weight of the burden inside her was still there. A sense of guilt and uncertainty in herself and her decisions, her worth and her self-labeled failure, was still gnawing at her from the inside, keeping her eyes clouded and her spirit sagging ever so slightly with melancholy. A burden that Azrael very clearly echoed despite his relief that his ward hadn't killed herself with despair.

While they had been making effort to move past the setback, the wounded couple was still mourning. Even if neither of them displayed it as plainly anymore, it haunted them, just beyond reckoning or acceptance.

Yet winter was approaching regardless of whether scars were healed or not.

As his sense of respect for his partner dictated, Azrael had sat Lilith down and engaged her in a lengthy talk about the various legends and mythologies surrounding what was most commonly known as the Day of the Dead. More importantly, he had explained the origin from whence they came, and the yearly ritual so vital to his strength and vitality.

The ritual itself was not demanding for an immortal, causing only minor tiring of the body and mind. Yet the entirety of the ceremony had never actually been completed – not once in the entire history of its existence; because Azrael had never possessed such strong ties to a partner before. And with the lack of a pair-bond the night was consistently incomplete.

Lilith was more than happy to participate as she felt her station required, and actually seemed rather enthusiastic, Pandora wasn't so sure. Lilith was neither immortal by blood or birth and she had no magic of her own. What if it was too much for her? Azrael drew strength from the process, but there was a slight chance that his partner might not benefit in a similar fashion. Had her opinion been asked, Pandora would have stated her uncertainty that Lilith was ready to do what she was so determined to.

Yet it wasn't her job to prevent the little lady from her determined goal of witnessing a real, honest-to-goodness divine ceremony and as long as Lilith seemed well enough, Azrael saw no reason to keep her away.

In truth, the girl hadn't looked this well in a long time. There was still a great deal of sadness etched behind Lilith's pretty face, but she was slowly starting to improve. There was even a possibility that participating might actually help them break that lingering thread of anguish. Thus, Pandora kept her doubts to herself. She did, however, make it a note to bring a few sprigs of chamomile and ginger just in case.

Snorting delicately, the medic picked up another basket, checking its tag and noted that it was miswrote. "Right, well," she mused, scribbling a new label, "if this was about anything else, I might believe you."

Pausing in her application of another label, Lilith looked up at the other woman, a question in her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you've only seen Azrael _really_ pissed off once, and it wasn't directed toward you." Pandora's pixie-like face twisted with a grimace as she recalled a long-past occasion when Azrael had once turned his vicious, if rarely-woken, temper on her. "It's a scary, scary thing when it is, believe you me. And when it comes to his girl, nothing is too minor to warrant cracking some skulls."

Lilith rolled her green eyes. "You're pulling my leg," she insisted. "He knows I'm stubborn and he knows I have no intention of missing tonight for anything, so if I _do_ get _overwhelmed _or_ pass out _and he throws a hissy fit, he can throw it at _me._" She emphasized her sentiment with the sharp smack of glass against the wooden shelf as she shoved it into place.

Smothering a laugh with the heel of her palm, Pandora patted the girl's shoulder and consoled her with assurances that she was probably right and no fuss would be made.

When it came time to leave, Pandora hopped from her seat, chirping about preparations, and pulled Lilith to her feet much to Lilith's amusement. Arm-in-arm, they walked down the empty hallways toward the transport chamber, serenaded by Pandora's operatic rendition of "Greensleeves."

Lilith did miss her mortal friends. She missed her dance classes with Alice and Janelle. She missed her work at the library and Sarah's light, affectionate chatter. She had missed Sarah and Mark's September wedding, too, bless them both. But she adored the one she had made in Hell too. Friends were support beams to a fragile pier, and she didn't care where she made them as long as they were good. She had found a way to be content with the news Azrael brought, that her girls were well and content.

The obsidian of the chamber gleamed, reflecting the orange light fanning upward from the lit iron sconces fixed along the walls. When they approached the shallow basin settled atop its plinth, Pandora made an encouraging gesture and Lilith lowered her face into the water, the demoness's guiding hand resting lightly at the base of her neck.

She felt a gentle tug somewhere in her middle and a faint but definite pressure enclosing her body. Yet regardless of the mild discomfort, the sensation was nowhere near as horrific as that of being transposed between spaces in the mortal realm. This was merely a bit of a squeeze, not full-out compression. And when she opened her eyes, Lilith found herself standing in a moonlit clearing surrounded by thick forest.

The wooded area was denser than she had expected. Clearly protected from any human desire to take a bulldozers to them, the ancient trees towered above her, reaching for the far-off sky. Some of them were so wide that even three grown men linking hands wouldn't have been able to span their girth, their bark rough and dense, the scent of them rich and fertile and old.

The plants and grasses had been left to grow freely, sprawling, untamed from the edge of the natural circle of open space. When the breeze – strangely warm for November – wove lazily through the growth, she could almost hear the trees speaking to one another. They were watching, whispering and aware.

This was clearly sacred ground. Beneath her feet, the very earth seemed to hum, ever so softly, so quiet that it was nothing more than a sensitive tingle at a corner of her mind. She knew she was somewhere in southern Germany, yet the world around her seemed so much older than anything known to modern man.

Everything appeared untouched and clean, virginal in the way of nature's dearly loved imperfection.

The air, too, was clearer than she had ever known it could be, sweet with the scent of evergreen and the faint smell of stream-water somewhere a mile or two away, the sky dark with the musky blues and violets of twilight fading into dusk.

She had been subjected to several run-downs of what the ceremony entailed. One of these had been from her guardian himself, one from Beelzebub – which had been more of a delicate prodding to get her involved – and one from Pandora. None of the descriptions had been very specific, however. Apparently the changes that would be made to suit the presence of Death's consort threw them off.

The main element she had grasped was that the ceremony was an interesting mix of a funeral, a psychic circle and a Beltane celebration. That and the evening would feature both dancing and good food.

The lack of in-depth description didn't bother her. In truth, she was more eager and excited than apprehensive, thrilled beyond all reason to learn that there were real, functioning spiritual rituals performed by the divine denizens. What was even more astonishing, she had actually been asked to _participate, _as though her presence was something desired!

It hadn't been fully disclosed that she was fulfilling a vital position that had been left unfilled for hundreds upon hundreds of years. Both Azrael and Pandora had deemed it prudent to skirt around that particular detail. They hadn't wanted Lilith to feel pressured into doing something she didn't feel comfortable with or might find too intense, especially since her health could still be considered questionable.

Though still quite slim, she had gained most of her weight back and had regained some color, her eyes no longer anywhere near sunken. Yet it had only been a few weeks since she had started progressing, and no one wanted her to slip back into her debilitating silence.

With eyes wide to drink everything in, Lilith gazed around the clearing, watching as a considerable number of men and women went about preparing for the ceremony.

Several were opening lightweight bags from which they pulled bundle after compact bundle of dark cloth. Others were carrying baskets of fruit and stacks of empty stoneware cups or lighting and positioning torches to give light to the dusk-shadowed clearing.

Two people she didn't know were busying themselves with six little bowls carved from pure black jet. The tattooed wings scrawling across their naked shoulder blades identified them as angels, which peaked her interest, as she hadn't met many angels since she had been demoted to the rank of the lowly damned upon conversion.

Edging closer, she observed with intent curiosity while the two male angels formed several seals with interlocked hands. Deep red and pale orange fire bloomed and warped into silver that seemed to transpose itself into a malleable liquid, to twist around the palms they had pressed together.

Whatever the magic was, it seemed to take a great deal of effort, for the sweat streaking their skin – one golden, one chocolate brown – matched the pace of their deep, heavy breathing.

Pandora had appeared beside her and plucked at Lilith's sleeve, drawing her attention away from the dancing silver flames pouring from the angels' intertwined fingers and tugging her toward the linen bags wielded by those in charge of the wardrobe.

Several of the clearing's occupants had already swapped their everyday clothing in favor of the primitive attire; garments composed solely of beautifully worked leather strips and folds of heavy black cloth. The interesting thing was the definite consistency between genders. What women covered, so did the men and what the men left bare, so did the women, and Lilith found herself regarding the exposure of skin with some concern.

When Pandora selected two of the garments and led her into an enclosed patch of forest to change, Lilith followed, resigned to her fate in regards to the uniform. After all, it wasn't as though the people in that clearing had never seen a body before. What difference did it make if it was hers or not?

The trick wasn't resolving herself to wearing the thing, however, but putting it on. She managed to navigate her way into the swaths of fabric held by ties and thick straps of soft black leather around the hips and thighs, but she had to enlist help with the mess of straps and ties meant to cover and bind the breasts. She actually found the humor to laugh lightly when she managed to get one arm stuck in the leather – after which a heartily amused Pandora took pity and secured it into place for her.

"They're a pain compared to modern clothes," she muttered while tightening the grip of Lilith's ties so the garment would hug securely to her chest. "But they're actually pretty fun to run around in. How's that feel?" Obediently, Lilith twisted and bent to try the fit, finding that the leather held her more firmly than any bra could have. Once Pandora approved, she added, "go find Enoch—the angel with hair like a sapphire. She'll take care of you while I get myself sorted out."

With a small smile, Lilith stepped back into the clearing. As soon as she left the secluded safety of the trees, she felt a trickle of self-consciousness sliding down her spine.

She had never been dressed in something so revealing, and now that she was, she felt undeniably flawed compared to the trim, lovely figures of the immortal women milling around her. None of those women were anything short of beautiful, whether sleek and muscular or light and slim like fairies.

Peering tentatively about, she searched for the hue of hair that Pandora had mentioned. But no one bothered her; in fact, everyone seemed rather busy, moving around the clearing amidst their preparations, occasionally checking the sky like a human would check a watch for the time. She tucked her hands around her torso, hugging her own body as she padded through the milling immortals, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

So focused was she on keeping out of everyone's way, she dodged to one side to avoid a small female weighed down with a mass of odd feathery structures and collided soundly with a tall, muscular dark-skinned male.

Jolted almost off her feet, she squeaked and flailed for balance. She was sure he wouldn't notice her, he was so solid; but the man _had_ noticed, and caught her arm in a powerful (and _huge_) hand to keep her from falling.

"I'm sorry milady," he apologized in a deep, velvet smooth voice, the tone unhurried and soothing to the ear. It was a voice that had the ability to trick people into thinking him slow or simple, but she could tell he was no such thing. "Are you all right?"

She had to look a long way up in order to see his face, for the man must have been at least seven inches over six feet in height, he literally towered over her. It took her no more than a single glance to decide that he deserved some healthy respect, because the once-over determined that with arms like that, tattooed with trailing Druidic lines, he could crack her like an eggshell.

"Y-yes," she whispered, hoarse and raw with nerves under the depth of eyes that held the rich browns, oranges and golds of Tiger Eye stone.

He released her immediately after setting her back on her feet, and she was grateful, for it allowed her to escape with a swift mumble of thanks. Times like these served to remind her that her paranoia was anything but diminished.

Having scrambled out of the crowd, Lilith took a steadying breath and renewed her search for Enoch; certain she had heard the name before but unable to remember from where.

Looking around, she scanned the heads roaming gathered in the clearing, eyes honed for the one color that seemed to be stubbornly evading her. Then, in the flare of light from a new torch, she found the back of the bright blue hair, spiked and teased into a violently feminine style against fair white skin and black uniform. That must have been her.

Lilith skirted the edge of the trees to approach the other female, feeling slightly bolder when she noticed that the woman was alone, one of the small black bowls cupped in one hand and dragging the tips of two fingers down her arm with the other.

"Excuse me—"

The woman turned and Lilith reeled with a sudden flash of pure, rigid surprise. The woman's face was an almost perfect match to Azrael's; the same high cheekbones and sharp, straight nose, pretty lips and wisely-shaped eyes. But after a moment, she noted that the female's cheeks were less hollowed than ones she knew and loved. Her jaw was softer, her chin slightly pointed and her eyes were not forged from rings of violet, but of deep azure, sky blue and rose pink.

Lilith openly stared, startled and awed by the marvel when she remembered Azrael's passing remarks about his twin sister. Enoch, the Metatron; the Left Hand and Voice of God. Yet while Lilith could only mouth wordlessly, having completely forgotten what she was there for, the slender, willowy angel's mouth lifted into a brilliant smile.

"Lilith?" she asked softly, and Lilith nodded. Suddenly her hand was seized by the angel's, squeezed by gentle fingers; long and lean, just like Azrael's. "Of course you are," she sent Lilith another bright smile, and there was pride in her lovely bell-like voice when she noted, "nothing but the best for my brother!"

Blushing, Lilith answered with a bashful smile of her own, a little stunned by the sudden declaration of approval. She had been under the unreasoned impression that her warden's sister would not want her brother to be involved with a human, but it seemed that was not the case; for Enoch was beaming so brightly she could have literally been glowing. There was such affection in her flawless immortal face, immeasurable and a little relieved.

"Thank you," Lilith said politely, ducking her head with unconscious bashfulness. "Pandora told me to find you…?"

The Metatron started. "_Oh,_ it's almost midnight," she exclaimed, releasing Lilith's hand with a final soft squeeze. "We're running out of time—here, hold out your arms and tilt your chin up!"

Doing as she was told, Lilith followed Enoch's fingers as she dipped them into her bowl. When she lifted them out, they were dripping with what looked like shiny silver paint. "What is it?" Lilith asked, profoundly curious.

"Quicksilver," the angel answered, studying the liquid coating her fingers. It was then that Lilith noticed the angular, archaic designs drawn across Enoch's white skin, the silver paint flat and glimmering like starlight painted upon the ivory base. "Moonlight caught by magic and made solid. It can be weaponized or sewn into fabric for clothing, but since the spell's so difficult, we usually only use it once a year."

She reached for Lilith's shoulder and briefly paused, "it stings at first, but that won't last long."

And she was right. The bite of the paint into her skin was harsh, a searing burn that quickly faded into cool relief. The angel's fingers were steady as they traced smooth lines against her bare arms and shoulders. "Is there a meaning or significance?"

The trace of Enoch's fingertips moved to the half-mortal's collarbone, navigating around the knot of her hair to make a gracefully curved v-shape along the nape of her neck. She wasn't alone, either; other participants wielded small bowls of paint, adorning other bodies with silver-tipped fingers. "Several," she answered, "In one aspect, it represents nighttime, because death and magic have always had ties to the night. Or you could look at it from the earthier point of view; the moon representing fertility, and having moonlight on your skin invites that fertility closer."

Enoch moved on to draw a long line down Lilith's chest and stomach, a pair of curving crescents at her lower back, fingers moving more quickly now as the people gathered in the clearing began to cluster more tightly around the stone circle at the center.

"It's also a highly protective substance. If you have enough on you, it can make your skin resistant to harm."

Stinging at her legs made Lilith conscious of the fact that designs were being sketched onto her thighs and calves. Yet they were the last, for soon Enoch was standing and flashing her a sweet smile.

"I hate to shuffle you around like this," she apologized sincerely, and she definitely seemed to regret not being able to stay and talk. "But I have some more things to set up before Azrael gets here—_Beel!"_ She called out the name, waving over a male figure dressed in uniform, pale skin painted up and sporting what appeared to be an elegantly-crafted mask crested his brow and fell down his back in a cascade of black feathers.

Drawing near, he took hold of the silver beak-shaped nose to slide the mask from his head, and Lilith recognized Beelzebub immediately.

"Yo," he greeted them; grinning like a rogue and sporting very sharp white teeth. He paused when he caught sight of Lilith, giving her an obvious once-over with golden eyes that sparkled with faint, lively interest. "Hey, hey—look at you all pretty and natural. If you weren't already spoken for, I wouldn't mind getting a handful." He reached out, snaring her around the hips with a wiry arm, his smile sly as a fox.

She calmly slapped his hands away, marveling at the fact that she hadn't shrunk from him like she would have had any other man come at her like that. It surprised her to realize he was one of few she trusted to keep his flirting to a defined level. But this was because he knew exactly where the lines lay.

The demon prince may have been Azrael's close friend, but he knew very well that it wouldn't save him from being gutted if he so much as kissed her. Highly possessive as he was, Azrael did not share and did not tolerate anyone trifling with his ward. It didn't really matter anyway. Beelzebub was not a fan of force; he liked his women – or men – to be willing and Lilith would fight him harder than a cornered polecat.

But to his eyes, there was nothing wrong with a bit of casual flirtation.

Tone dry, she snapped: "you whore," and he laughed.

"Like I haven't heard that before," he scoffed good-naturedly, rubbing his smacked wrist and turning his tawny eyes to Enoch. "What d'ya need, babe?"

"Get her a mask, will you? And finish prepping her," she told him, taking a step away as if meaning to leave.

Then she paused, eyeing Lilith as though she saw something that wasn't quite right, whereupon she gently pulled the tie from the girl's hair to send it tumbling down her back in soft waves of deep brown. Then, with one last, assessing study, Enoch nodded, leaned forward to kiss her gently on the cheek, and whisked off into the crowd.

Beelzebub gave her a hum of approval. Sparing a quick glance for the sky, he frowned and beckoned her to a spot at the edge of the spacious clearing sheltered by trees which had been spread with a clean white cloth and a rich feast.

Fruit, fine cheeses and wine had been arranged upon large beautifully carved wooden platters and in stone carafes, circled by small stacks of shallow stone cups. There were pomegranates cut into quarters and bleeding scarlet juice onto the pristine white of the cloth, whole shining apples, plump bunches of grapes, and round baskets piled with some kind of deliciously browned flat bread. And at the center was a wide, thin stone bowl of what seemed to be yet more wine.

The liquid was deep, deep red, and potent enough to make her cough. It certainly smelled like wine, but fruitier, richer, and it definitely contained more alcohol; yet the reason for its post as a centerpiece was hidden.

The demon prince was touching her shoulder, holding out a mask identical to the others. It was a pretty thing, the feathers silky soft to the touch and the silver nose- and eye-piece cool and masterfully etched with delicate knot-work; and when she slipped it over her head, she found that it was quite easy to see out of.

The tips of the feathers brushed the nape of her neck and the edge of her shoulders, small whispers of touch that tickled lightly against her skin. It was then she fully realized that she had no idea what she was supposed to do.

But she needn't have panicked as she almost did, because Beelzebub seemed to anticipate it. He indicated the centerpiece bowl with its spirited contents and told her, "when the dancing stops and the fire goes dim, someone will hand you that. When you have it, all you have to do is drink."

Lilith quirked an incredulous eyebrow, forgetting that he couldn't see it. "That's all?"

"Yup." He grinned, and while she couldn't actually see it behind silver and feathers, she could tell by the tone of his voice. "The rest should take care of itself, if all goes well, which it should. Just remember to breathe, little crow."

"But, wait…isn't there choreography or something?" Lilith hissed between her teeth when he began gently prodding her into the crowd of people, all hushed, waiting for a sign which kept them silent and still with bated breath.

"No. When it comes to that, you'll just know." He was slipping away, weaving between motionless bodies and toward the stone circle.

"But what if—"

She never got to finish her half-panicked question. A great cheer had risen from the gathered denizens of Heaven and Hell, loud and keening and primitive, raising goosebumps along the skin of her arms. It lifted to the heights of the stars, the howling of a wolf pack, unity drawn from a common belief and respect driven toward the being they had come to celebrate. Clearly Azrael had finally appeared; his visitations for the day completed, ready for a night dedicated to fortifying his strength and power.

She edged slightly to one side, peering between arms and shoulders in an attempt to see more clearly. The instant she saw him, she thought she might have had a stroke.

He always looked more beautiful than sin when he dressed in black, but most of the time he wore more clothes than a priest. Now, however, he was garbed like everyone else with half his lovely white skin put on display, strips of ebony binding sinew and flesh in a manner that should have been banned long ago. He had lengthened his hair, she realized, the golden strands long enough to drape around his throat.

At the sight of him, her heart wanted to leap from her chest and soar like a bird.

_God,_ but he was handsome. When had she forgotten that irresistible allure he had, and how on earth had it been possible? Had she really been so buried inside herself that she had actually forgotten what he was – what he meant to her? She didn't know, couldn't answer her own questions; and that struck her with an awful mixture of doubt and guilt.

He was smiling; a mild, cordial expression as he met the masked eyes of a male and a female, each bearing a little bowl of paint. She realized that these were Beelzebub and Enoch, the two beings, and two opposites, closest to him by blood and by friendship, and he held out his arms for them to mark his skin.

She saw his teeth clench when the sting of it hit him, his head tilting backward for Enoch to drape a sinuous line down sternum and stomach around several leather strips. He could have been dreaming, his eyes closed, his breath steady but for the little skips pulled from him by the stinging pain of a new mark. He looked so very peaceful in that moment; she felt her chest contract with emotion.

But what she hadn't expected was for him to suddenly straighten, his eyes snapping open with a flare of deep blue and his head whipping to one side, recognition in his face as he scanned the crowd.

Lilith could almost feel the inhale he took, wolf-like, trying to catch the scent that had so ensnared his focus. And as an immortal male so strongly attached to his partner, he found her amid the many bodies within the span of seconds, meeting her eyes as a flush of delightful heat curled at the pit of her stomach.

His smile shifted, ever so slightly.

That smile was very different from the one he had given his sister and friend, different from the casual, polite and absent-minded turn of lips that was merely affectionate. That was a smile which contained far deeper an understanding, secretive, patient, playful, and downright sensual – the smile he gave only to her. It was the smile that could bewitch her into letting every inch of her guard down until the only thing left to lower was the clothing she wore.

With that single look to pin her in place, he could have stripped her to the skin, even in front of all those people, and she wouldn't have resisted.

Beelzebub's fingers skimmed across the angel's mouth, coloring his lips with silver before stepping back to joining Enoch at the edge of the crowd. But even with the distraction, never once did he look away from her, never once allowing her to escape the soul-deep penetration his piercing eyes could produce.

"_Avis…_"

Lilith sucked in a shaky breath as his gaze was broken by the murmured word from the gathered people, a whisper and a rallying cry, recognition of power upon the night.

Someone had handed Azrael a mask; similar, yet quite different from the others, with an elegantly curved beak and streaked with pure white feathers that trailed down his back like a shroud when he put it on. A great bird of prey, a beautiful raptor among the assembly of crows waiting to give him their support, their strength, and their love.

The crowd seemed to spread out, but the movement was so liquid and subtle that she had difficulty following it. She found herself part of a circle without knowing how she'd joined the loose, spacious ring surrounding the stones at their center.

For a moment, it was as if the world itself was holding its breath, every man, woman, animal, bird, tree, and blade of grass held frozen in utter silence on the edge of something greater than all of it. It was both a strange and familiar feeling, like walking down a street the image of which had been framed on a wall, yet she had never seen before with her own eyes.

Her ears pricked, certain that she could catch the soft pulse of a drumbeat somewhere, perhaps far off into the distance, matching the swiftly rising thickness in the air that threatened to choke her lungs and seal her veins. Suddenly she understood what Pandora had meant when she mentioned there might be too much magic for her to handle.

Every being in that clearing was accessing their personal store of magical ability – even those who were not mages by nature, because immortality itself was magical. It flowed around them, crackling like heat lightning when the individual string of one person crossed paths with another. Though the sensation of the threads whispering across her skin was gentle, warm and altogether quite beautiful, she could feel the weight of it was slowly smothering her.

She tried to swallow the immediate reaction of alarm, but her lungs shuddered and worked for air without her consent. For a split second, when she caught the spark of fire somewhere in the corner of her vision, she thought she was actually slipping into unconsciousness, but it was also the moment she remembered Beelzebub's caution to breathe.

The instinct to relax pooled inside her like honey poured from a bottle and her throat smoothly opened. Yet as the strangling breathlessness faded, the world around her had begun to distort beyond her ability to understand.

Vaguely she could register the keening notes of a song from the voice of the angel they worshipped with a dance that drove their bodies beyond pure consciousness. The sound was low and hypnotic, something between ancient tribal chant and gospel hymn. The sensation it sparked was much more pronounced; a subtle hum reverberating deep inside the body, drawing the power from and through her like a channel.

It was that channel, that conduit of thrumming energy, which caused the movement. She understood now why there had been no assigned steps; because every body there was connected, every mind, every thought spun together by a weave of thin, invisible threads stronger than steel. Because of that link, they moved in harmony without having to think.

Lilith whirled and pranced with them, beneath the sway of the effervescent rhythm, her body curving in ways she had always unconsciously known, but had never accessed until then. With the blood pounding in her brain, her spine curved and twisted with the pulse of the internal beat of body and soul.

It was like nothing she had ever known before.

With every step, they were one entity split multiple ways; melding thought and feeling, and thus, great power. From every person in the clearing a sliver of presence wound around the shared mind, every piece waiting patiently for a turn to whisper its message into the subconscious.

The fire burning, suspended from the ground, flames licking at the air channeled that power to its focus, the angel who would gain fortified strength from the trust and faith in their hearts.

She was swept up in the notes of song being pulled from her lungs, the force of which was baffling. Her throat uttered words she was certain she had never known, sounds and melodies she shouldn't have been able to speak. The women's generally higher-pitched tones spiraled toward the sky, twining smoothly with the rich harmonies delivered by the men. And though the activity was heavy on effort, breath, and energy, no one seemed to tire.

The whispers were more prominent now; each individual tone woven together in a constant strand of sound that everyone could hear and understand. Lilith could find every separate thread and hold it for a moment in order to comprehend it, feel its significance and know its owner.

Male and female, demon and angel alike, their thoughts and cares and burdens flowed in and out of her consciousness like water through cloth, and she cradled the words inside herself as though they were the most precious things in the world.

…_can't really explain it. I think it's something hidden under the paper, under the ink…_

…_I am so _sick_ of it; can't they just pick a side and have done with it?_

…_he's never been so happy—I hope it can withstand such awful misfortune…_

…_two months already. Gracious, how that boy has grown…_

…_I love her. I could bleed to death for her grief…_

Just as suddenly as it began, the dizzying whirl of the trance ended. It simply broke; whisking thoughts, memories and snippets of magical energy back to their proper, respective owners as the ring of twining bodies sprawled to the grassy ground, gasping for breath and eyes closed to savor something stunningly close to drunken ecstasy.

The thrumming, underlying hum of power was still there, the life and awareness of the earth folding around them as they lay there; panting like spent sparks of molten energy.

Lilith lifted her head from the soft, fragrant grass, her mask sliding dejectedly from her head to sit silently upon the green carpet. Something was supposed to happen now…her dazed mind just didn't remember what. When a pair of nameless hands handed her the centerpiece from the spread of food, it began to leak back into focus. The heavy stone bowl was slowly lowered so that when she sat up and reached for it the thick liquid did not spill.

For the second time, she nearly gagged from the strength of the scent prickling at her sensitive nose, nearly overpowering with its sharp, alcohol-tinged sweetness. She stared down into the shallow depth of the deep red liquid, pondering vaguely whether this was immortal alcohol, and whether she would be able to stomach it without either retching or spiraling into a coma.

The gathered people spoke as one entity, multitude of voices meshing neatly into one, murmuring soft encouragement for her to drink. Still she hesitated, lifting the edge of the bowl to her mouth before she paused. Second-thoughts waged war with the instinctual desire to obey, but the murmur rose again: "drink…" and she knew her choice had already been made.

It was smoothly polished, but the thin rim of the stone was chilly to the touch, but the warmth from its contents more than compensated for the kiss of a cold vessel.

Since her twenty-first birthday, she had only ever consumed a single alcoholic drink, and having not found much enjoyment in the flavor, hadn't partaken in any since. Compared with the pitifully mild concentration of alcohol in the Mike's Hard Lemonade, however, this was an entirely different animal.

Spiced and potent, the thick wine slid heavily down her throat, hot with the burn of spirits and sharp with the tang of fermented fruit, sloughing through her body like a warm vibration along the path of her nerves. It seared the delicate skin of her lips and mouth, half-blinding her with an unexpected potency. Almost immediately she felt succumbed to slowness, her mind numbed as she swallowed thickly before refilling her mouth, having been under the impression that she was supposed to drink it all.

The hand which curled around the base of her neck, however, seemed to disagree with that sentiment.

A second set of fingers closed around the rim of the bowl, pushing it down while its partner angled her head so her face was tilted upward. She blinked, searching the darkness for a clue as to what was happening, and was granted one in the form of a pair of swiftly closing violet eyes.

It seemed odd that she hadn't noticed he had been so near, but irrelevant once he did what he meant to, because it drove the thought right out of her head.

Azrael's mouth always seemed to remind her of some soft, pliant marble, firmly yielding and just as beautiful however he chose to apply it. Now, however, he used it in a way she had never once imagined could be possible. With avid determination and a masterful use of skill, he pried her lips apart and slipped his tongue between them; feeding on the wine she had taken but not yet swallowed.

She jerked, startled by the smooth ripple of heat that raced across her skin – one that had absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol – and pulled impulsively backward. Yet he had always been too strong to fight, even now that she shared his immortality. The iron of his hand kept her sternly in place, cupping the back of her head to render her submissive whether she liked it or not.

But she did. Even when a thin trail of liquid slid from the corner of her mouth to slide down her chin, she trembled with a pleasure that struck her deep to the core when he caught it with the tip of his wicked tongue and traced it back to its source.

The grip she kept on the bowl slackened between her shock-loosened fingers and it slid away from her, hitting the ground beside her knees with a soft thud and spilling its contents. The wine soaked into the earth, the scent of it rising like perfume into the air – ripe and musky as liquid lust.

The instinctual response was overpowering enough to blind her to everything else but him, and something inside of her seemed to give way.

Lilith ignored the bowl and lifted her arms, wrapping one over his shoulder and using the other to grasp the ties securing the straps of leather around his chest. Somehow she managed the ties without seeing them, her eyes closed beneath the intoxicating embrace of her lover's gifted mouth, and the puzzle of straps and strings fell meekly to the grass, vanquished by her desire to be rid of it.

Low and husky, a growl shivered up from deep inside his chest, his empty hand splaying flat across her lower back to press her firmly against his own firm body. She complied with an almost feverish enthusiasm, leaning back as though to bring them both to the grass, the soft slope of her inner thigh rubbing gently against his hip when the arch of her foot dragged upward along the edge of his calf.

But he didn't let her go any farther. His palm was firm against her knee, pressing her back down to the ground and forcing space between them by pulling his mouth away.

The muted cry of protest fell unbidden from her tongue and he touched a finger to her lips, murmuring, "Surely you don't really want to give all these people a free show?" Prudence slammed into her like a brick wall. Instantly she flushed and allowed him to slide smoothly away to stand.

Whining rose from the demons, and even some of the angels, still lounging on the grass; their whistling and amused, light-hearted praises assuring them that there were no complaints to a public display. But Azrael simply smiled vaguely in response, holding out his hand to Lilith.

"Come," he coaxed softly, "We have mourned long enough. It's time for you to remember why you gave birth to our child in the first place."

It took her a mere moment to decide, glancing from his gentle, unveiled eyes to his extended hand. She knew exactly what he meant, and she knew all those people knew it as well. But she didn't care. She wanted what he offered; warmth, companionship, distraction, love, all of it. And then there was the pool of desire in her stomach when she saw his eyes darken with his not-so-subtle perusal of her skin.

She took his hand, symbolism and all, allowing him to pull her up and lead her across the clearing toward the trees.

"That's a good girl," Azrael purred, the breathy timbre of his voice extracting a shudder from her spine that echoed through her flesh, nearly causing her to stumble.

He should not have said that. Wasn't it bad enough that he could turn her to liquid just with the sound of his voice alone? It had probably been spoken absently, but she couldn't help the hitch of her breath in response to the words he had chosen, because they contained such a terrible lie.

She _had_ been good girl, once upon a time ago. But he had long-since devoured that part of her. Good girls didn't allow men to kiss them like he had just done; they didn't wrap their legs around their guardian angel's waist. Good girls didn't act shameless or wanton. And they most certainly didn't strip the clothing from their unsuspecting partner's body to bare them to the world.

The watching revelers were treated to a good view of the angel's firmly-sculpted rear end before the pair of them vanished into the secluded shelter of the trees, the offending garment slipping from Lilith's fingers to blend effortlessly into the shadows.

"_My,_" he mused, taking her by the chin and touching a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth, knowing perfectly well it made her blood burn with wanting, "eager, are we?"

She wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, fingers tangling at the feather-streaked strands of hair at his nape to drag him down for a real kiss. His breath just brushed her lips as he turned his smooth cheek to her. Again she tried, and again he evaded the press of her mouth, chuckling when she glowered at him.

"What's the matter?" she snapped, flustered and annoyed by the quiet rumble of amusement through his chest. "Am I not good enough for you all of a sudden?"

Giving her a gently reproachful look, he admonished softly, "You_ know_ that's not true."

"Then let me _kiss_ you—"

"Are you certain that's what you want?" he asked, tone far too casual for her liking. Yet suddenly he was very serious, all hint of teasing in his voice swallowed, a memory buried beneath the weight of his hand against the small of her back and the unusual warmth of his body enveloping her.

Marble lips brushed the sensitive skin of her temple. His breath was sweet, sharp with the tang of the liquor, hot as it smoothed against her face. "Is it really you talking this way? Is it the alcohol?"

It was so easy for him to make her burn. She shivered, the wanting so intense that it literally made her ache, consuming her as fire would consume the fragile folds of a sheaf of paper. He could have asked her for anything with that voice; anything at all and she would give it to him without hesitation. But she didn't understand his question.

What was he asking? What did he want from her? He should have known to be more clear, known that she couldn't possibly comprehend any riddles or deep, probing thoughts when everything she was made of was drowning in need. Her fingers curled into the grooves of his shoulder blades, trying to lift her face to him when his free hand tangled around her hair and stopped her short.

Temper flared; frustration and despair choking her with the halfhearted sob she just managed to silence. What did he _want?_ Hadn't _he_ been the one to teach her how to crave the taste of his skin? How could he be so cruel now, to deny her what he had raised her to yearn so deeply?

The fingertips at her back slid lightly across her skin, tracing five scorching lines from the leather straps circling her hips to those binding her breasts flat, unknowingly – or perhaps _quite_ knowingly – creating a weakened tremble in her knees. "Or perhaps," he murmured, pulling a new, more violent shudder from her with a skill only he ever seemed to possess, "perhaps it's the grief talking."

Unconsciously she stiffened, her muscles tense and drawn, and she didn't know why. Her grip grew slack, her hands resting somewhat awkwardly against his shoulders.

Frustration swiftly spiraled toward anger, fury sparking as if lit by the heat pressing at her from all sides, seeming to start from the blistering touch of his fingertips at her spine. She didn't want to talk about grief; she didn't even want to think about it. Thinking would only lead her to places she didn't want to be.

For too long she had been locked in the darkness, taunted and scratched by the cold, away from anything warm. For too long she had forgotten what it felt like to know herself, to know the purpose – the reason – behind the blood, the sweat and the agony and the feel of him holding her hand, offering his arm for her to claw while she cried and pushed and cried some more. For too long she had lingered, lost in the part of her that had been ripped away, the little shape that had fit so neatly into the crook of her arm, the tiny head against her breast.

For too long she had neglected to remember why it was that she had strode so foolishly forward to meet the clouded mix of hope and rationale that had ended her mortality. Her world had been shattering around her, leaving her the barest shred of space to slip back into reality, to what she loved despite their loss.

And now he wanted her to talk of grief?

How could he do this? How could he force her to recall the devastation of losing their only child after kissing her so sweetly just a moment ago? What did he want her to do, cry – again? She had nearly drowned the both of them in tears, how was it possible that he could want any more?

She didn't need to talk. He had done all the talking she needed, had been the voice she had used to echo the loss she knew bit into his heart as deeply and mercilessly as it did to hers. His songs had been her outlet; didn't he know? But just what gave him the right to corner her with promises of warmth and solace only to turn around and trap her under all these questions? Questions that _hurt_…

Voice breaking with a sound of pure misery, she pulled back her arm, trembling fist arcing with every intention of striking him. It would do nothing to make him release her, she didn't even know if it was possible for her to injure him, but she hoped it would convey how much she couldn't handle any more of these games.

Yet within an inch of striking flesh, he spoke again, his tone hushed almost to the point of becoming a whisper against the subtle curve of her cheek, and she paused.

"It hurts you still," came the quiet murmur, "did you think I wouldn't notice?"

She didn't move, frozen to the spot by the jagged edge to the voice that was so dear to her. He spoke softly, aware that they were well within hearing distance of people who not only possessed extremely keen hearing, but a distinct amount of interest in their relationship. But though the words were subdued, his meaning was made quite clear by the weary cadence of the emotion spilling from him like the wine had spilled from the upturned bowl.

"I can smell the despair, Lilith. _Taste_ it," the grip of his fingers tightened against her back, "like a bitter coating on your skin and your breath. I can see it in the way you walk, hear it on the voice that pleads with me to kiss you and make it go away. You think you hid it well, did you? Thought you could keep it sealed away and act like nothing's wrong?"

He brushed the dark hair aside from her neck, unveiling the sensitive skin just beneath her ear to which he touched his lips. "I told you some time ago that you could never hide from me. I didn't jest with you."

"I—"

"_Be still_," he ordered, and his command alone nearly as effective as the compulsion woven thick and strong within it.

"I know it hurts. It hurts me—" His voice broke, and he took a hard breath to mend it. "—Just as badly. More so, even, because not only have I lost my son, I have to watch _you_—the dearest thing to my soul, the only reason I still have breath or life within me—suffer because of a choice I made out of poor judgment and selfish fear."

He finally pulled away to look at her, piercing her through the heart with the sorrow in eyes haunted by the shadow that had for so long plagued him like a disease. Sadness tempered by tenderness that reached into her and settled.

"But I have also known the damage done by a mind warped by misery. And I'm telling you right now that while I feel nothing but empathy; you can't let it rule you anymore."

For a moment those wise, knowing eyes closed, his breath falling so gently that it almost escaped her. But when it met her ears, she felt the pieces of that wounded part of herself lie where they needed to. "Enough is _enough._"

Her fist fell. But instead of striking him with a blow, it flattened gently against his collarbone as the anger fled her body like a possessing spirit being banished from her mind. In the place of a raging slap, she offered a caress, sensing now with trembling understanding what it was he was trying to do. He hadn't been trying to trap her by luring her with kisses and whispers of escape, nor was he accusing her of anything but being justified in her pain. What he _had_ done was remove her from the guilt and sordid depression that had been slowly tearing her apart.

Not only had she been suffering silently for weeks, she had repressed it, and he couldn't have seen the signs of a debilitating sorrow more clearly if the words had been written across her face.

Sometimes what a downward spiral needed in order to right itself was a firm hand and a bit of honest chastisement, not sympathetic complacency. When she had needed his empathy, he had given her everything he possessed. Now that she needed his stern, commanding-officer's voice to shake some sense into her, he was responding exactly the same way.

Slumping forward, she let her head nestle into the crook of his shoulder, turning her face into the side of his throat to breathe in the clean, reassuring scent of his skin. Like a flower, she seemed to wilt, the petal-softness of her limbs weakened and frail, and he knew his words had done their work. But she didn't apologize or push away from him in shame, nor did she turn silent or stony to isolate herself from the truth.

Softly, but not at all tentatively, her arms wrapped around his middle, her torso curling into him as if seeking to borrow from his strength. "How is it," she asked quietly, "that you always seem to know exactly what I need to hear?"

The angel's breath was a whisk of musky perfume against her hair, his cheek smoothing across the deep brown of the strands still wound around his hand. "Because I love you, Sweetling," he told her, affectionate and true, as he always was. "Because I love you."

She shifted, grip tightening around his waist, her slim little hands sliding against the ivory whiteness of his skin, exploring as much as she was absorbing comfort from his being near. He was right, but what was there to be done? It wasn't as if she could just forget that she had given birth to a child she was no longer able to hold or love. What, then, would leech away the decay inside her soul?

"What should I do?" she pleaded, "I don't know how to make it go away—"

"You must bleed."

Lifting her head, heavy with the weight of her anguish, she looked up into his face, not bothering to conceal her confusion. "Bleed?"

Azrael's fingers combed through the snarls his restraint had knotted into her hair, brushing lightly against the nape of her neck. His gaze was serene, grayed, but resolved. "Bleed out the poison that grief becomes when left to fester and decay."

"But I've already cried so much…I don't want to cry anymore," she frowned, unhappy with his answer, thinking he referred to the healing power tears usually retained, and _had_ retained, until she had cried herself dry.

His pale hair caught the delicate moonlight that dappled the shadows of the thicket when he shook his head. "No," he murmured, gentle and patient, "no tears. You do no good for yourself or for Cillian by crying again, and it kills something inside me when you do." The hand that had held her back so tightly lifted to brush tender knuckles across the slope of her cheek, his eyes kind and quiescent when he added slowly, "there is more than one way to purge the soul of poison."

And suddenly she understood him. As though he had ripped away the blindfold of her own disillusioned denial with hands that were gentler than a lamb's breath, she realized his reasons behind relying so heavily on the beautiful night, the ceremony, the burn of alcohol and the natural pull that seemed to draw them together like matching pieces of a puzzle.

Before he had come along and cheerfully prodded her stubborn self into accepting her affection for him, her guardian since childhood, she hadn't understood the exchange of strength or solace that could be found within an embrace. Nor had she understood the peace that could come from a touch. It was _that_ power, not the one of sorrow and force, to which he referred.

He wanted her to accept what their love had created, to admit that it hadn't been a mistake, because only then could she truly heal.

She tilted her chin upward, the corner of her mouth curving into a tentative smile, her bright green eyes closing for a soft moment before sliding slowly open to gaze up at him from between the arcing veil of her lashes. "Then…will you kiss me now?"

He had no choice but to buckle; they both knew it. The way she manipulated the request with her sweet, gentle voice was so mild and quiet; she could have been fourteen again, young and innocent, the same girl that had haunted his dreams as determinedly as any siren.

But then, she had always seemed to be able to draw out his desires. No matter how hard he had tried to keep some sort of protective barrier between her and the animal nature hidden beneath his flesh. Whether by her precious shyness or unspoken attraction, even when she had never intended to be alluring, she simply seemed programmed into finding ways to make him hunger for her touch.

Under the dull throb of grieving pain, it was no different from the first time she had asked him to kiss her – the same heady anticipation, the same lurch of excitement. The only difference was the desperation.

In a way, he almost wondered if he had ever wanted her more urgently than he did that night. It could have been because he knew how much she needed to be released from the ghosts dragging her into darkness, understanding just how damaging the mind could be. Or it could also have been attributed to the length of time he had gone without her. He had gone for so long without warmth in the past that her presence often inspired carnal tendencies.

But it could also be attributed to the night itself; his night, and the ceremony in which she had agreed to participate so eagerly. Something about the knowledge that she had allowing herself to be molded around the more primitive edges of his nature by contributing willingly was a powerful enticement.

The unquestioned, almost primitive closeness of it had stirred the life back into his ward, and he had very nearly been driven to the point of pinning her to the grass and making love to her right in front of all his siblings and comrades. She was usually such a prude little thing, blushing and shy. But sometimes she responded to him as only _she_ ever could, making his blood sing and his body run slick with fire when her willing arms circled his shoulders and her shapely, dancer's legs parted to cradle his hips.

Yet pursuing a cure for the wrong reasons could often be just as damaging as the ailment itself. Because of his love for her, he had forced himself to resist the temptation of her soft skin and the wine-rouged lips that had pleaded with him to kiss her pain away.

He'd had to make her see that he was not an escape route to be utilized for avoidance; but a salve to the wounds themselves, even if the process of healing stung. Now that she understood that he could not be her outlet unless she allowed him to share her sorrow – that his insides felt just as mangled and broken as hers did – he knew there was no denying her. Enough was enough, and he had no intentions of allowing grief to destroy their bond.

He had endured centuries by being nothing but hard and stern and carefully controlled; but when it came to her, his lovely, compassionate ward, he was melted silver for her to shape. And he rather liked the way she molded him.

Playfully, he pretended to consider her request, inquiring softly, "And where shall I kiss you?" He touched a finger to his lower lip, tapping gently, working to hide a smile as he observed the way her chin tilted hopefully upward to offer her mouth.

The urge to tease was simply too strong to give in quite that easily. His palm shifted to cradle the base of her head and her eyes drifted closed, certain that he was going to do as she asked, and he was amused to feel her surprise when his lips pressed to the arc of her shoulder instead, caressing the smooth bare skin just inside of the strap securing the leather to her chest.

At first she seemed disappointed, he could sense it clouding her gratitude, but didn't let it daunt him. She changed her mind quickly enough once he let his kisses trail slowly upward, fingertips tracing the slivered gaps between the strips encircling her bound breasts.

The breath caught stiffly in her throat, torso contracting away from the torment of his heated hand at her flesh, and he used her momentum to slide in closer to her, the hand cupping her neck forcing her spine to arch and press her body into him.

She had briefly forgotten his nudity, and she breathed with a sigh of approval when her hands followed the line of his back to reach the naked curve of his posterior. Of course, that could have been a result of the firm graze of his teeth against the base of her throat, scraping a hard, delicious line along the graceful curve. Her grip slackened, her fingernails etching soft, hair-thin lines into the marble skin that had been colder than stone what seemed like mere moments ago.

He adored the sounds she made, always so delicate and enticing – finding a way to both melt under surrender and regale in her power, managing to wrap both facets of herself together. All the tiny edges and corners that made her who she was were reflected in the whispered breaths she used to offer him compliment; everything that had made him fall in love with her in the first place. Such a sweet, delicate thing, and yet even in delicacy she was so very strong.

The fragile little girl was still there, in a way, hidden beneath the surface of the steady, capable woman she had worked to shape herself into. He knew that there would always be a bit of childlike fear in her. She had been denied the loving childhood she deserved and the scars would always be there because of it, proof that she had survived, but he thought no worse of her for needing his reassurances.

Yet she came to him with trust and hope in her eyes when she curled herself into his chest to borrow his strength. But she was no weakling. Her strength showed in ways beyond physical prowess.

She showed him her strength by standing tall against things that would have broken anyone weaker, by trusting him with all that she held dear. And she kept him strong by doing so, despite claims of ignorance. He would never hurt her; she would never abandon him. In that sense, at least, they were exactly the same.

Rubbing his nose in the lily-softness of her skin, devouring the taste of sugared, flowery femininity that sank into his tongue, it was very clear to him why no other female had drawn him so deeply.

No one else had matched him the way she did; no one could fit to his body with the same grace, share his mind and thoughts with such ease, smile with him, laugh with him, argue with him, love him as truly and perfectly as she did. No one else could make him drunk with craving – not like she could. But, of course; no other woman had been presented to him with God's personal seal of approval, either.

That might have had something to do with it.

He smiled into her neck, kissing softly and slowly, relishing the dazed slide of her fingers up the contours of his back to tangle in his hair, and tucked his hands under the swaths of her clothing to fill his palms with the smooth flesh of her bottom, squeezing just hard enough to wrestle a breathless squeak from her throat.

It wasn't exactly what could be called fair play,but code of honor was different when it came to the vastly diverse plains of passion and war. So he didn't think it so out of line to slip a clever pair of fingers a little lower, offering a lengthy caress across the juncture of her thighs, shielded by entirely human underwear. Heat flushed her pale skin in even synch with the clench of muscles crafted by nature to be stronger than steel and more sensitive than a butterfly's wings, her lips parting with a silent gasp.

Then he pulled away, releasing her just in time to hear her swear at him in the most colorful language he had ever heard fall from her pretty mouth.

"—_oh_…you wicked, black-hearted bastard! You—you _tease!" _

The furious words drowned the shivering mewl that had threatened to shake loose, her temper ignited, sparks in her narrowed green eyes. There she stood, livid and trembling despite her rage, her arm braced against the trunk of the closest tree to keep from sliding to a puddle-like heap on the ground, delicate hands clenched into fists, her knees pressed together as though to hide the evidence of her pleasure which gave the air a tang of honey and spice. And her glare was more imposing than that of any army general.

He couldn't help laughing, and despite the attempt he could have made to choke it back, the deep, full-throated humor that poured from his lungs simply would not be quelled.

Tease. Of all the words at her disposal, many of which would probably suit him better, she chose to use _tease?_ Maybe it was a personal preference, but if it had been him in her shoes, he would have used something along the lines of _cad, lout, _or evenquite possibly_ scoundrel._ But she had called him something so negative as a bastard and so generous as a tease in the very same breath.

That was definitely a talent he hadn't heard from her before.

Amused as he was, he briefly wondered whether she was actually offended by such a bold move so early on into the dance. Surely she must have realized by now that his thoughts of her were not always pure. Yet he felt it better not to take the rise to her tone too seriously. Black-hearted she may call him for playing, he was fairly certain she was giving a back-handed compliment.

He shot her a crooked smile, arcing one golden brow when he met her scowl and inquired cheerfully, "and you were so adamant to be kissed! Don't you know work with the lips leads to work with other things?"

His voice was light, amiable, almost as if he were merely asking whether or not she knew it was after midnight and if she was certain she should be outside. Yet it must have struck a nerve. She lunged; throwing the entirety of her weight into his torso with one fell, crushing impact.

Had she not caught him off-guard, it never would have worked; but as he had assumed she would still be seething instead of driven to action, he lost his balance and fell to the grass, momentarily stunned.

She rolled, finding it strangely easy to pin him beneath her weight, meager as it was compared to his strength. Her skin afire with the heady sensation of control as she gazed down at him though the loose curtain of dark hair tumbling over her shoulder, adorned with a soft wave from being held in a knot. In that moment, she could understand the reason behind his natural dominance in intimate situations, and the way he used his commanding presence to his advantage.

At the moment he lay quite passively, content to be ruled; content to be tormented by the pressure of her sprawled above him, his face open and lazily beautiful. Despite the calm he seemed to exude, however, she could feel the rapid flutter of his heartbeat just as she could hear the rush of breath causing his lungs to work more than he usually required for sustenance.

There was no way he could hide the hardness of the muscle pulled taut beneath his white skin or the dark gleam to the eyes veiled by feathery strands of pale, iridescent gold. She was no stranger to the pulse of his desire.

Her soft green gaze took in the part of his lips, the halo of flaxen hair spilling across the carpet of grass, the slight flush to his carven cheeks, the vulnerable line of his throat leading her straight to the steady rise and fall of his chest. It was a powerful feeling to look down at him like that, and she knew without being told that he had never allowed another woman to straddle him as she did now. He wasn't submissive by nature, and none of the women in his past had gained the same kind of respect or devotion from him in order to earn it.

For them he had been what he was to any other human, an ethereal figure likened to a god, always and ever in perfect control; but for _her_ he would do almost anything, including forfeiting that steel-hard shield when she needed to feel strong.

She was his other half, his partner, his possession, even his conqueror. _She_ was his mate, and the power he gave her was more evident in that surrender of supremacy than it had ever been before.

A sense of proud, victorious pleasure curled at the pit of her stomach as she gazed down into eyes that gazed so adoringly up at her, watching so closely, waiting with bated breath. Was this was he felt when he bedded her? Was this the primitive thrill of the hunter when he knew he had successfully trapped his prey?

It must have been, for she could find no other way to describe the delicious impulses that drove her to bend her head to his ear, her whisper almost matching the chocolate purr he was so fond of using to bring her to his sheets. "So _this_ why you like to be on top…"

He didn't reply verbally, but he didn't have to. She could feel the hitch in his breath, the lock of air deep within the throat as she touched the tip of one finger to the shell of his ear, tracing the shallow curve before letting the tiny caress slide downward along the line of his neck. The shivered response made her smile, her mouth moving against smooth white flesh as she followed the delicate line her nail had made, lips slipping lower to touch a brief kiss to the curve of his Adam's apple. It was really nothing more than a brush of skin to skin, yet it caused a delicate spasm, throat working beneath her touch as gooseflesh rose across the expanse of ivory.

A quiet noise escaped the marble of his mouth, half muted groan and half something else. In that same moment, he lifted his hand as if to touch her, then seemed to think twice and let it fall back to the grass beside the bare thigh gently gripping his naked hip.

"Because it gives you power?"

Her body slid smoothly against his, pressing downward, her lips trailing soft, languid, open-mouthed kisses along the firm swell of his chest, delighting in the shift of strength under his pale, supple skin that answered the call of deeper, darker instincts. Glancing up, she watched his beautiful head angle to one side, tongue darting out to wet dry lips.

"Answer me?" she entreated; fingertips dragging scorching lines down his abdomen, turning chilled skin hot with the stirrings of an insatiable need.

At the same time, she mimicked him, using the tongue he himself had taught and instructed with such tender care; administering a lengthy, sensuous lick to the salty-sweet flesh of his upper torso, studying and absorbing, just grazing the silvery pink of a single flat nipple.

Though she had hoped for it, she hadn't quite expected the intensity of the reaction her ploy brought her. He had thrown back his regal head, neck and back straining with the arch of a bowed spine, his body tense and slick with perspiration, a luscious moan of ecstasy jolting her straight to the heart.

"Yes—" He regaled her with the answer she sought, the word pressing heat into her veins along with the powerful, muscular body curving smoothly into her, the heady spice in her blood seeming to flow through her very bones in perfect synchronism to the fluid roll of his hips. "Unh—_yes…_"

The movement shocked them both with the lash of an electric jolt of contact. Emboldened by such an enigmatic reply her mouth closed around her lover's earlobe, teeth softly grazing the tender flesh. Face buried in the spread of his hair, she inhaled to take the rich, musky scent of his sweat into her lungs; the luscious personal cologne that, to her, equaled pleasure beyond her darkest imaginings.

She didn't know where this brazenness was coming from. It seemed like mere days ago she wouldn't have dared so much as _think_ about such things, not when she would have been incapacitated with mortified embarrassment. And yet here she was.

Maybe it was the alcohol tapping into wishes she had repressed; maybe the magic that still surged through her blood. Or maybe it was that after having the last shredded veils of the incapacitation stripped away, her emotional register had spiraled away from her usual inclination toward modesty. Perhaps that feverish desperation that had blossomed from the wine's heat hadn't been as reactionary as she had first thought, but had been there inside her all along, waiting to be released from the prison of her sadness and her fear.

Yet the cause didn't truly seem to matter, not when the result was sprawled so deliciously godlike beneath her.

It was strange to be the one in control; but the warmth pooling low in her abdomen was no different from the results when he held the reins. He could drive her to the brink of insanity, had done so more than once, but she realized – as though it had been somehow impossible before – that she could do the very same to him. It wasn't clear whether Lilith had ever before felt so very empowered.

Considering how open he usually was with his desires, he was keeping remarkably quiet. Once in a while he would sigh, a soft noise of approval coiling from his mouth while he shifted beneath her. Between the grip of her legs she could feel the strong sinew of his thighs flex, tense and tightly-coiled. Despite how efficiently he kept the volume to a low purr, she knew he was bordered on the edge of desperation.

He must have traced and retraced the curve of his lips at least a thousand times with his tongue, yet the wetness never seemed to wipe away the silver stain. She itched to kiss him again – with a nearly overpowering want – but the urge was restrained by some persistent nagging want to hear him lift that lovely, musical voice of his. So she settled for kissing elsewhere, mapping the expanse of his chest with mouth and ever-curious fingertips, tracing the lines of muscle that rippled smoothly in response to her exploration.

All the while wondering how far she could push him before he shoved back.

The tip of her index finger slid deftly along the line of his sternum, the shallow cleft halving his chest. Feminine nails grazed tingling arcs into the porcelain of white skin, waiting, patiently lulling, soothing, before she struck – biting gently at his earlobe just as her hand slid along the length of his abdomen to slip deceptively innocent fingers between them both.

The leather-held cloth of her garments still separated her from his naked form, but it didn't shelter her touch from it, nor did it do much to shield her from the natural stiffening of muscle enflamed by desire.

When her hand slipped between his powerful thighs, she thought he might throw her like a wild horse would a rider, he jerked so violently. But he recovered quickly from the shock, his palms steady, if a little rough, when he gripped her by the hips to keep her securely in place, straddling his hips.

"Keep treading that path,love, and I won't last," he informed her, voice husky, roughened velvet. The eyes that gazed hazily up at her were streaked with the rich blue belonging to lust, tugging a riveting shudder from the base of her spine where one of his fingers trailed lightly downward.

"I don't care," she spoke against the warm skin of his neck, drinking in the shivering pleasure that radiated around him like an aura of sparkling electricity. At the moment, the spice of his scent possessed the tang of autumn lightning, hot and sharp, quite possibly attuned to the affect of immortal alcohol. She wasn't positive of that, but whatever it was, it made the muscles low in her stomach clench and curl with heat.

"You'll care a great deal when it takes me ten minutes to work back up again."

"Ten wonderful minutes," she sighed dreamily, and his reply was a low, husky peal of laughter that brought her a delicious streak of desire. "I think I'll take my chances."

The smile at his lips sobered just slightly, pleasure-drenched eyes sharpening just enough to relay his uncertainty. "I'm not sure that's wise. Perhaps we should wait until the liquor dulls…"

But the look he was giving her did more than conflict with his words. It was one of the looks that showed her more of his true, deeper, instinctual nature than any other time, something he kept wrapped up in the neat box which made him the prim, polite, dutiful man he appeared to be. Not that any of that was a lie, but it wasn't purely _him. _Now that she could recognize it, she couldn't really help the happy little thrill in her chest upon realizing that he no longer concealed his less-human qualities from her.

Neither did he bother to hide how much he wanted her, how those depthless eyes forged from magic and darkness and raw, uncharted power focused as though to engulf her, absorb her, possess her. And regardless of his scraped attempts to be logical and overly cautious; it merely inflamed her all the more.

That carnal, primitive simplicity, and the impossible complexity of it, was not something her human-born mind could fathom. She could spend a thousand years trying, and she would never fully comprehend all that which composed this creature whose name did nothing to describe him. But her heart and her soul had only needed one to understand him perfectly. And understand that this crushing, overpowering craving was right and good, and beautiful.

She was, however, still a tiny bit shocked by her own gumption.

Her back arched to rest her chin at the base of his sternum where it radiated into silken muscle that was both so strong and so delicate, gazing at him from behind the veil of her lashes. "I don't want to wait."

A tremor rippled along the length of his body when her breath feathered across his skin, the ivory surface contracting delectably beneath the soft mouth that kissed its way along his chest and down his stomach to pause, pondering, over the flat space that would have been his navel. Her fingers trailed, absorbing, memorizing across the firm contours of muscle and felt strangely at peace.

A moment later, both her hands snaked along his sides to loosely grip his forearms, lips against his powerful stomach, and murmured, "I want to have you _now._"

Ripping the air like a physical rent, the growl that tore through his carefully held composure was nothing short of feral; a sound both invigorated and devastated by the long, damp trail left upon his skin from the line her tongue drew from nonexistent navel to throat. Yet when she kissed him, mouth meeting his despite the instinctive snap of sharp white teeth and pressing her lower body into his hips, she could distinctly feel the swift hitch from animal to man again, the hissing growl making way for the heavy, tortured groan.

She nipped lightly at his lower lip, teasing with her tongue when he lifted his chin for a deeper angle, growling a second time when she pulled briefly away, only to be silenced again by the crush of her hips into his flesh. Moan after gasping moan she dragged from his iron lungs, all the while pinning his sleek, unyielding limbs to the grass.

But her insubstantial strength would never be enough to keep him chained forever.

When he jerked free, she had no choice but to let him, startled away from the chocolaty velvet of his mouth by the force he used to break from her grasp. Immediately he reached for the leather straps cinched around her chest, long fingers deft and quick to make short work of the mess of ties and strips.

She nearly choked when he finally ripped the contraption free, throwing the leather forcefully aside with a soft noise of victory. But his strong hands were gentle when they cupped the swell of her breasts. If she had retained any sense of sanity before, it was surely gone now, burned to a cinder by the heat that sparked, crackling around and between them.

It was her turn to sigh, eyelids fluttering, driven nearly sightless by the soft, tantalizing touches of his fingers to her bare flesh. His mouth brushed her skin, breath hot and thick with desire while he returned the lipless kiss with an evil tongue; a firm graze of teeth, press of white lips, absorbing, tasting, sucking tenderly enough to send a shock of pleasure straight to the secret place so intimately crushed against his groin.

Liquid need, sweet and warm, pooled in her blood, rolling from her throat with all the inflection of a gasp. "_Azrael…_"

He moved with the sound of his name on her tongue, hands skimming the soft hourglass of her figure in order to grip the leather cinched around her hips. "Weight on your arms," he murmured, voice rasping with the rough growl of one lost to his own hunger.

She obeyed, flattening her palms against the grass on either side of him to shift her weight forward. It hurt to have space between them, ached with raging streaks of an unhinged anguish, and she had to clench her teeth together to keep from screaming with the mindless wrong of it. But it wasn't long before he managed to slide the swaths of fabric and the insignificant scrap of underwear down her legs to be kicked aside, unwanted, abandoned for far better things.

The trembling seemed to increase when he curved his palms with the shape of her thighs, slipping coyly back up to clutch at her bottom, relishing the bare state of her skin. She knew he would, logically it made sense and her brain understood the concept as clearly as it ever had; but when he forced her back down to do away with the empty space with a swift press of his hips, she felt as though the entire world had been remade without her knowledge.

For the second time his back arched upward, head thrown back with a hoarse cry of ecstasy, no longer caring if he was overheard. Tidy nails dug into the curves of her lower back, his hands shaking as his violet eyes lifted to drink in the rapture on his partner's face.

Lilith couldn't swallow the whimper, the pure, vivid sensation was just too delicious to keep silent, her hands too restless to keep from wandering along the firm structure of his arms, shoulders and neck.

Dazed, stricken half mad with wanting him, she followed a glistening bead of perspiration that trailed down his chest with the tip of one finger, licking the flavor of spice and apple and immortality from his skin. Dark eyes watched her every movement, possessing and thirsting with every breath. His hand skimmed across the arc of her hip and the gentle slide of his fingers was as languid as it was fevered, skillfully pushing her resistance until she could no longer bear it.

With an impetuous wrath she had never known before, she angled downward and suddenly found herself being ripped open, cloven neatly and cruelly in two.

She crushed her knees against the steel-hard dips in his sides below the ribs as something deep inside her shattered, gripping firmly enough to break bone, though she didn't know it, and found his name upon her tongue; finally, _finally_ understanding the worshipping, reverent tone she always heard in his voice.

"Azrael…_Azrael—_"

His touch had forgone its gentleness. Yet she hardly noticed the crushing grip, she was shuddering so deliciously, so full of mindless delight.

The hiss that coiled from his throat, grating between clenched teeth and flushed lips, struck her like a blow. The white satin of his sweat-streaked skin gleamed over muscle that arced and flexed, spine curved to meet the helpless bend of her own abdomen, crushing the softness of her breasts against his ribs. A growl melted into a groan of utter, insatiable bliss.

Husky, rendered rough with the scrape for breath that dragged her lush, sweet scent into his blood, ripe with awe and pleasure, the melody of his voice swelled like a song. "_Yes…_" And it seemed like everything inside her was contracting with the sweetest kind of distress.

Then, suddenly, he sat up, stomach muscles screaming with the speed as he caught her by the hips with iron hands, stopping her, stopping the rage and flow of the power coursing between them. She could do nothing but strain, reaching with trembling arms to bring him back, nearly sobbing because the throbbing pleasure so close to pain coursing through her wouldn't stop. She silenced herself by biting his shoulder.

On the deluge raged, ignoring her whimpering cries; a flooding tempest of emotion and passion and sensation, torment and pleasure, agony and promise of redemption hovering over the precipice. And then, short and sharp, smooth as much as it was rapid, tortured with the care he took to protect her, he rocked forward with all the energy he had.

Her entire body imploded, as though someone had flung a lit match to a pool of dry whiskey. It struck her speechless, the names of the stars themselves on her lips swallowed by his mouth, smothered by the titanium-hard grip going slack upon her thighs. Spine arching backwards, inwards, organs distorting and rending and being remade under her skin, she quivered with what felt like the tremors of an earthquake, muscles snapping loose and blood under her nails to match the wine-dark stain upon her parted lips.

She could hear him, his breathing ragged and heavy, could feel the mild twitch of his fingers against her skin and the hard gasps brought to him with thanks to the pressure of her body clutching at him, pinning him in place like a human shackle. She could hear the whisper of her name gracing the air like _Amen_. And she couldn't help feeling that everything that had been unraveled was now again whole.

_What God hath joined together, let no man put asunder._

It was a brief moment, a fleeting lick of farewell from nirvana before the waves crashed upon the shore of mind-numbing wonderment. But for that moment, nothing moved – nothing at all. The earth itself held its breath with them, riding the paralyzing streaks of pleasure shaking them like rag dolls.

Then, with a light, airy exhale, Lilith simply collapsed, her body spent and sated as it draped across her partner's torso.

Her lips curved; the smile distant and content, feeling lighter than she had in months, feeling the pain finally start to ebb away, floating into the realm of the past. As though it had been forced from her system, she could no longer find the stab of hurt and guilt, the knife having been pulled out, the wound beginning to heal.

He had been right all along. Wasn't he always when it came to things like this?

Steady and rhythmic, the rise and fall of Azrael's chest beneath her cheek brought her a serene kind of joy, and her smile widened; unable to help the pure, undiluted happiness soaking into her.

Something had righted between them, eased, mended; something that had been bent by the force of their loss and immeasurable sorrow. Suddenly it seemed as though an infinitesimal gap between them had been knit back together by touch and by closeness. She hadn't realized how much she had hurt without the depth of their connection until she felt how good it was to have it back. He had been right in front of her, and she had been missing him. That would never happen again.

She smoothed her palm against the satiny skin encasing his pectoral muscle, resting her head against his shoulder. "You're glowing," she stated softly, voice slightly hoarse from the silent scream that had roughened her throat.

Her fingertips indicated the state of his pale flesh, the silver paint that had somehow disappeared and the steady, moonlike shimmer that had spread across his bare body in its place.

"I'm not the only one." His arm encircled her waist, curling around her back to cradle her against his chest, the other hand venturing behind her to slip along the slope of her thigh – an indication of his own.

Though her body ached with exertion, she shivered in reply to the touch of his calloused palm against her leg, and suddenly she noticed the soft shimmer that adorned her own skin, eyeing her arm in mild surprise. "See?" He kissed her cheek, tenderly twining his legs with hers while she stared at her own bare skin, chuckling at her shock.

She twisted her arm, alternating between the sleek silver sheen spread across the back and the blue traceries of the veins in her wrist. "What is this?" her tone was both awed and a little frightened, but calmed when he took gentle hold of her hand and carried it to his lips.

Kissing softly, he offered her a slow, affectionate smile before answering. "It's merely how we display pleasure. The quicksilver just enhances the…vibrancy of it."

"I'm flattered, but I don't remember ever seeing you glow before." She cast him a worried glance; "this makes me wonder whether we're both going to explode."

He raised an eyebrow, his smile shifting to adopt a lushly wicked tilt. "We just did, Sweetling." She blushed, the soft light in her cheek pink with a charming show of flustered happiness. "You have an immortal's skin now, so it only makes sense that you reciprocate. Besides, have you ever really looked at me very clearly after making love before?"

No…she hadn't. He had always managed to distract her with other things. "Ah…I get it. All in the skin, is that it?"

The soft peal of laughter that flowed from his throat found its way inside her, causing an instinctual clench of desire as the rough, husky sound trailed along her body like a physical caress. His lips brushed the inside of her wrist, delicate skin instantly rendered to the state of smoldering parchment, his whisper shocking her to the core with a surge of melting pleasure. "That's the idea."

Snatching her hand back, she tucked it defensively between their ribs, shooting him a fierce, green-eyed glare. "And that's enough of _that,_" the reprimand was shaky, despite her attempts to be resolute, and the lazy smile on his godlike face didn't make it any easier. "I'm exhausted—"

"I beg to differ," he interrupted, and with a swift twist of his body he sent her sprawling, rolling to press her back into the grass. One powerful hand gripped her wrists and pressed them to the ground, firmly holding her captive while the other dragged down the length of her torso. His fingers splayed, roving over the soft curves of her figure, straight to the place where it burned so beautifully.

She gasped and cried, writhing with a jerk of her hips against the pressure of his hand and its smooth, deliberate enticement. Her back curved, slender limbs trembling, straining against the force holding her down and away from him, and he watched as the glow that had begun to fade flared into brilliance, shining like moonlight that radiated from beneath her skin.

There was a distinct amusement to his smile while he basked in her pleasure, tone casual and flirtatious. "If you were so exhausted, you wouldn't be asking for this, now, would you?"

"I haven't…I'm not asking—_oh…_" Her voice splintered, shocked into momentary, breathless silence by a particularly deep caress of sensation, the sweetness causing her pulse to spasm and her toes to curl with relish. "Stop manhandling me!" she snapped when she could speak again, trying to calm the heave of her chest and still the throb of the hunger craving to be soothed.

Azrael's teeth flashed white in the soft silver that radiated from her bare flesh, the devilish smile at his lips causing her heart to shudder and skip a beat. "_Man_handle, is it? How very appropriate." His powerful body leant over her, all sleek lines and focused strength, bent knees nudging her shapely legs into a position that better suited his intent and drew a prolonged cry of sweet distress from his chosen female with a touch of tender fingers.

"Azrael, please…" The undertone was rife with pleading. Begging. She should have been disgusted with herself, but she no longer seemed to care. She would do anything, _anything_ to make him ease that awful, wonderful ache.

She swallowed thickly, fumbling for the sense to speak, her legs hooking and pressing at his thighs as though it might convince him to both stop and go on and on and on.

"_Please—_"

"Understand," he murmured, the hard, sensuous purr in his voice wrapping around her like a ribbon woven of luxury and power, binding her to his will with an ease beyond any mortal's means. "That this is the one night when I will have no mercy; not even for you."

The rest of his words were spoken in his own language, the letters of heaven rolling from his tongue like slices honeyed decadence into her ears, dripping over her naked skin, drizzled like some liquid spice over a fine dish fit for his palate. With the way he took in the scent and taste of her pleasure, that very well could have been true. She could understand every word perfectly, blessed with the immortal gift for subconscious translation, and almost wished she couldn't. It just gave her another excuse to fall in love with his beautiful mouth.

Promise after promise he gave to her, and with every one he followed through, bringing her from the depths of torment to the very pinnacles of infinite perfection, his ecstasy flowing through and around her like the coiling, silken chains of affection.

Under the moonlight he thrashed the pain from her body, purging her of any guilt and remorse that may have lingered behind, drenching the forest with the sounds of rebirth and the scents of replenishment.

As gentle and conceding as he was, she couldn't fear the rise of such a forceful demand; he was, after all, half predator. It was part of the man he was, part of the fathomless creature that had asked her to love him, who adored and cherished her so dearly and carefully. Fear had no place there anymore, not when she could feel the devotion in the slip of his caress and taste the love on his breath.

Fear, the dreaded serpent of so many myths and legends, had been slain by the simplest and most treasured of gifts. Trust, respect, and a mutual bond…a bond that could withstand even the loss of something as precious as a child.

In the end, she didn't mind that he had withheld his mercy.

* * *

**Greetings, readers! A happy early Valentines Day to you all!**

I didn't expect to meet my deadline, but somehow I managed to complete the edits on this chapter ahead of schedule. And since I will be away from my computer for the next few days, I decided to update now instead of later.

I do feel compelled to note, because this was, as I said, already written and in need only of editing; we've returned to my composing everything new from this point on, and to the land of unknown lengths between updates. I'm trying to utilize my free time and plot/format as much as I can beforehand to make the actual writing-time shorter, but who knows if this will work or not. In any case, I don't know when the next update will be, but I'll try to make it as soon as I can.

As to this chapter; I realize it's a deviation away from main plot, but I feel chapters such as these are vital to the strength of the plots themselves. I dislike stories without a lot of substance, subplots, and a general multitude of things going on, and I try to incorporate that in my work. I hope it was enjoyable, at the very least!

I'll leave it here, but I will give one last plea for you to review. I know I'm still getting a fair number of hits/visitors per update, but not much by way of reviewing...and I can understand that the inconsistent update wait is vexing. Truly, I do. But I still hope you wonderful people will forgive me and review regardless of how irritating my taking forever can be. It means the world to me, every single review! Please consider, and make my day, gratitude will be forever yours!

And with enough silliness; until next time!


	21. Hopeless, Not Heartless

**Chapter 21**  
**"Hopeless, Not Heartless"**

Recommended Listening: "I am Beautiful With You" by Halestorm  
and "Carry Your Cross (and I'll Carry Mine)" by Tiamat

* * *

It became clear very early that Cillian had inherited his rapid rate of growth from his father's bloodline. In the weeks following his adoption by his human foster parents, he had already begun crawling, marking the soft carpets with the impressions of tiny hands. Such progress was unsurprising, and Azrael was grateful he had prepared for such a possibility.

The spells laid in place for just this turn of events had taken a smooth, seamless hold, attaching themselves to the aura and appearance of the child. Every time the eyes of Sarah, Mark, or any other associated human with any form of relationship with or knowledge of their charge passed over him, they would see nothing out of the ordinary. He was a growing boy, and he was reaching toddlerhood. Nothing odd there.

Except that Cillian was now barely five months old. But this was, after all, the point; to protect him, and to protect those around him from the truth that would ultimately terrify their human sensibilities.

The rate of his growth was unexpectedly rapid. Even having prepared for the baby to share his quick maturing rate as well as his penchant for the conduction of magic, Azrael still managed to find himself surprised during his visit, upon which he found his son crawling around the floor when he had not been before.

The rush of pride and fondness, however, was forced to combat with a shock for which he had not been prepared.

It seemed that Cillian was apparently able to see things that were _Other_ in nature. For the creatures with which he was playing – creatures he had first thought to be kittens – were demonic in nature.

His first instinct was to get them as far away from his child as he could possibly get them. Fear for Cillian's safety chilled him with protective fury, bringing a defensive spell to his fingers and a snarl to his lips.

Then he caught a better look at them.

They were young Raum demons, of a classification mortals had been known to dub will-o-the-wisps when they were small. Their slender, sleek furred bodies were still purest white, not yet having taken on the brindle patterns of gray, cream, or tan that would come with adulthood and grant them individuality. The wide, glassy eyes set in their mink-like faces were a jewel-like pink of clear, peerless rose-quartz for the females or blue-green like turquoise for the males. The tones would darken as they aged, but for now were bright and pale.

Azrael observed the way his son watched the little demonlings play around him, so at ease in his presence. That they hadn't fled from a human – even a child – was surprising. He shouldn't have been able to see them let alone interact with them, and that he could should have sent them skittering and keening for their parents.

That they would be so calm, that they would let him play with them, stroke their fur and share his collection of rubber balls, was simply phenomenal. It implied that their mother or father had deemed Cillian a suitable and unthreatening playmate.

Infant Raum were known to be frail, weak enough to be easily killed and therefore taught by their much fiercer parents to be extremely wary of potential threats. Even grown they were delicate compared to other, more formidable and armored breeds of demon. Knowing this, Azrael would have expected the adults to whisk their brood away from any human body that seemed to recognize their existence.

But they hadn't. They had left the babies there, showing such an implicit trust in something they should have feared.

For a moment, it stunned him, and he found himself wondering what the Raum had seen that he himself could not. Was this yet another of the tasks of a Messiah – to serve as a neutral mediator against all the prejudices which dug deep furrows between the races?

He hadn't considered such a thing before, but that hardly made it impossible.

One of the rubber balls bounced out of the circle of playing children and rolled across the carpet toward him. Almost as if the outcome had been inevitable, two baby Raum chased eagerly after it, tripping over their own slinky bodies as they skittered in a happy race. The instant they broached the outer layer of his shields they could sense him.

It was one of the Raum's gifts, a highly attuned sense of magic use. They could tell when and where magic was being used and in what concentration, which was one of their main functions on the battlefield, aside from their dexterous and deadly teeth.

As children, they knew only that he was powerful and a very real threat – an angelic seraph, someone they instinctively feared.

Unable to see the source of the colossal magical weight surrounding them, they cowered, curling up, bellies close to the floor, looking around in vain to spot from what they should flee. Their small, slim legs trembled, their tails tucking in as though to protect them, blunt noses sniffing and ears laid back against their skulls.

Azrael had never before been so close to a Raum's child. Had the parents known the human with which they had left their babies belonged to an angel, they surely wouldn't have left them there.

Until that moment, he had never truly looked at a Raum without an automatic veil of wariness. They had no love for his race, and took every opportunity to take a chunk out of him when they could. But now, he felt sad that things had gotten so out of sorts between them. He found himself hating the hatred and segregations that fell between demons and angels without justification or reason. For those things, these helpless little beings felt his aura and all but choked themselves with their terror.

Slowly, so as not to extend their fear, he peeled back some of the layers, enough for their wide, searching eyes to see him. Immediately they cringed, having a source for their fear. His pity for the little things swelling to burst, he reigned back some of his magic, tucking it away behind a layer of concealment to lessen the threat he posed. Even more slowly, he moved to pick up the little red ball at his knee, extending his hand just a little to offer back the toy.

It took long moments for the demonlings to do anything more than huddle at his feet, but when it began to become clear that he was making no move to hurt them, they lifted their sleek white heads to sniff curiously in his direction. He held himself as still as marble, waiting patiently for the little creature to come to him.

One, slightly braver than the other, pink eyes glowing with wary interest, crept closer, tail still tucked protectively to its legs and ears still laid cautiously back. Closer it came, then closer, obviously prepared to flee should he make to strike out. He kept motionless, waiting.

But when the Raum finally drew near enough to take the ball and run, it chose instead to sniff delicately at his fingertips, wanting more to explore than its toy back. A single, small foot, no wider than the pad of his index finger, brushed his hand – cautiously at first, but then more eagerly when no reprimand came. By then its sibling had crept near as well, sticking an inquisitive nose between the fingers which held the ball, as though to see from what he was made.

Extending his other hand, he very gently stroked the sleek white fur forming a soft rise down the brave one's back. At first it shrank, uneasy, before it realized that this was something it liked very much indeed, and pressed into his hand as if for more attention.

The second, eyeing its fellow with a driven scrutiny, joined in, and soon he had two baby Raum demons rubbing themselves against his hand and making soft little cheeping sounds; something he had never before experienced.

Casting a quick glance toward his son, who was too distracted by the remaining three of the small brood to have noticed him, he quietly shooed the little demonlings back to their human-shaped playmate. He sent the ball rolling along the floor for them to chase, which they did with much enthusiasm.

He had already lingered longer than he should, having stopped by only to look in on Cillian upon a whim that wouldn't go ignored. Apart from some close demon contact (which didn't seem to be all that hazardous to his health), the boy seemed perfectly fine, round-cheeked and happy, and Azrael couldn't afford to stay much longer. One never knew where prying eyes hid, staring out from the shadows. And he could not risk spending too long in this place, lest he draw attention to what _he_ was hiding there.

All the same, his eyes rested gently upon his quickly growing son, affection and a mass of longing squeezing at the heart beneath his chest. How he longed to stay, and knew he couldn't.

The wishes that he could become visible, scoop Cillian from the floor and swing the boy around in his arms, hear that gurgling of young laughter, press his nose to the soft baby skin and all those other things he so wanted to do were folded neatly and tucked wistfully away.

For later times? Perhaps, if he was fortunate.

He knew very well that the throb of pain he felt squeezing at his chest would not have been so harsh had he left his heart in the safe confines of its box. But somehow the pain itself was worth feeling, for the sweetness that would have been missing along with it was still there, faint, but pure and running deep in his veins. Even if it would have eased the strain, he was glad in part to feel anything at all.

When the two baby Raum caught the red rubber ball and managed to roll it back toward the place their second unexpected second playmate had crouched, he had gone. But he had left, in his wake, a soft sense of comfort and safety for the sake of children of both his own blood and that of a demon's.

He opened his eyes in the transport room just off the Scribe's Hall in the communal part of the Hellish Palaces, and began making his way down the curving hallways toward Pandora's storeroom, where he knew his ward would be. She had been studying with the medic for several weeks now. From what he could tell, she was not only enjoying the work, but showed a rather generous promise in the field.

As promised, he would pick her up so they could have dinner together. And despite his less than light mood, he noted that the thought of seeing her after two days spent at the Eyrie and on visitations served to ease some of the strain to his heart.

The storeroom was only a few paces down the hall where Pandora kept her office, the better to keep from having to undertake a long trek or ingredients in an emergency. With its two-stories of stone shelving packed with jars, crates, boxes and baskets of everything from herbs and stones to bandaging and needles, wide, long worktables and expansive collection of reference books compiled with input from Raphael and Lazarus, it was a healer's dreamland.

When not occupying its space, Pandora utilized a variety of locking mechanisms for its doors. Once or twice in the past ingredients had been tampered with and nearly caused horrific accidents in the medic tents off the battlefield, and since then she took great pains to ensure such a thing never happened again.

It was also why he made sure to announce his presence by knocking before entering. Upon hearing Pandora's answering call – a noncommittal noise of assent – he pushed his way through the heavy ironwood door.

The two women were poring over one end of the worktable at the far end of the room, which was just visible between the rows upon rows of shelving. Pandora was observing as Lilith, a look of intense concentration on her face, picked through a selection of dried plant bits, separating out twigs from leaves and berries. He recognized a test when he saw one, and was sure to keep his approach quiet so as not to disturb any concentration.

As he neared, they looked up to smile at him: one with amusement and amiability, the other with obvious affection, which gave way to determination when Lilith shifted her attention back to her task, chewing at her lip.

Finally she said, "ok. I think I have it now."

"Go ahead," Pandora urged with a nod.

Extending her hand, Lilith pointed to one of the plants, the one with wilted yellow blossoms. "Agrimony, which can be used to create a deep, undisturbable sleep." She indicated the next, a round, flat red flower which had been pressed between the pages of a book. "Red poppy: pain relief and a mild narcotic. And…Feverfew, for reducing heat, fever, or illnesses. But it can also increase any of these things, right?" she asked of the flattened green leaves beside the poppy.

Pandora's smile was encouraging. "All good so far, keep going!"

Lilith's hand drifted to what was unmistakably the blossom of a dried thistle. "Discomfort or unrest. And Hemlock," she indicated several short, thin twigs and several purplish berries, "the tree variety, which is a restorative for bodies or magic, and the plant variety which induces trances or poisoning depending on the amount."

She paused over a small pile of gold-brown crystallized material, which she studied closely. For a moment she was quiet, leaning over the substance and staring, before finally frowning. "I don't remember this one," she admitted.

"That's because we haven't gone over it yet." Pandora pushed a book toward her student, open to a page detailing a spiky growing plant with leaves shaped like teardrops. "It's myrrh, of the plant variation, not the tree. I'll teach you how to tell the difference tomorrow. For now, we'll just say that it is reversal: whether of pain, infection, poisoning, or magic."

Lilith's dark eyebrows rose. "Really? That's impressive." She leaned over her open notebook – a thick bound volume bound in burnished red leather, and a gift from him – to jot down a note she quickly titled _Myrrh._

Pandora's smile widened, humor in her silvery eyes as she turned to Azrael and said, "As you can see, she's taking to it like a duck to water. It's like she was meant to study healing."

"Apparently," Azrael's eyes lingered on Lilith's half-bent form, pleased to note that the shadows that had hollowed her face not all that long ago were almost completely gone, leaving soft skin healthy with a light pink flush in their wake.

It was phenomenal how much better she looked after only a week and a half of time since the Day of the Dead ceremony, phenomenal to have the affects so clearly displayed in the glow of energy and vitality put back into her spirit.

She wouldn't be quite the same, as there was still a significant amount of worry there underneath, but the same could be said of himself. They wouldn't be quite healed until they could have their child again. But for now, it was good to see her so alive again.

She straightened, folding her notebook closed and tucking it under one arm. Her eyes traveled almost automatically to him, resting upon his face, a gesture he recognized to be something that gave her comfort.

Even during the days when he tucked his heart away for safekeeping he had felt himself tune into her when she looked at him, bathing a usually unmovable consciousness in a serenity that had at first seemed unreal. As though even Death itself knew what she was to both halves of his soul. When she looked at him, smiled at him as she was doing now, all forgiveness and acceptance, the elemental in him settled down somehow, its instinctive restlessness eased. Something he had long thought impossible.

Pandora's hand was on his shoulder, pushing lightly at him as she spoke to his ward. "We'll talk more about it tomorrow, I promise," she reassured, shooing the pair of them toward the door. "Now go have your dinner!"

Lilith tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow and flashed him a grin that was pure amusement. "Yes, ma'am!" she replied with gusto, and he couldn't quite help the curve of his own mouth.

The door shut decisively behind them, echoing Pandora's message that they had been banished from her company until the next day, and they began the brief trek down to Azrael's suite, where the dinner he had ordered awaited them.

He savored the quiet as they walked, enjoying the closeness and the intimacy of the moment. He slid an arm about her waist, tucking her close to his body, the better to feel her breath and the pulse that beat beneath her skin. She laid her cheek against his shoulder, and he could feel her inhale the smell of him which clung to the cloth of his shirt, and his heart pounded with his affection for her.

Their meal was set out upon the small table he had added to the furnishings of his library, along with yet another of the lush cushioned chairs to the space before the hearth. Routine had adapted nicely to the change, giving them a place to sit together, side by side, in front of the warmth to read or talk and eat, so that even when he was working, she could be included in proximity if not in activity.

A savory seafood pasta dish with asparagus and leek had been paired with crusty bread and a sweet white wine, suited to Lilith's liking as he introduced her to the enjoyment of alcohol with food. She took an experimental sip and made a small noise of satisfaction.

"That's actually sort of good," she noted, "better than last night's."

"White tends to be more forgiving than red," he agreed, hiding his amusement behind a forkful of pasta.

For a moment she said nothing, merely took a slice of bead and spread its surface with butter.

"How is he?" she finally asked, her voice as gentle as the question was neutral, and he lowered his utensil to regard her more closely.

To the part of him that saw beneath the calm, she was still a little bone-weary from the months of grief; but she no longer displayed signs of damage because of it. When he looked more deeply, beyond the purely physical, he could see the dark marks of it were gone from her spirit. In their place was the natural concern of a mother worried about her child.

Some of the tension that had begun twisting at his insides eased. "Sarah and Mark are good to him. He seems happy and healthy. He's growing like a weed, too—about the size and maturity of a baby twice his actual age, which should only increase in rate if my theory is correct."

When she looked at him again, it was with a sweet expression of gratitude for knowing what she needed to hear: something positive, something to justify her concern without treating it too seriously. "Just like his daddy."

"What, growing like a weed?"

"The word _weed_," she corrected breezily, "is relative. But no, I meant maturity of someone twice his age. Or twice the age he looks." His face must have mirrored some of the sudden unease he felt because she was quick to add, "Which I find very attractive, I'll have you know."

It wasn't the first time he had feared his age might bother her, and he doubted it would be the last considering that she was bound to notice his lapses into stony emotional neutrality when he distanced himself from his heart someday. But for now, he took the compliment for what it was and set the worry aside to make way for the pleasure of hearing her say it.

"How goes the training?" he asked, and to his relief she made no indication that the change of subject from their child caused her stress.

"It's been the best thing for me, I think, since I can't go home," she admitted after she swallowed a bite of vegetable. "But not only to keep me busy, I'm learning something worthwhile—something valuable—and I like that."

His fingers curled and uncurled around the stem of his wineglass, his fork abandoned and his mind leaping back to the idea he had been nurturing for the better part of the week, wondering if the time was right. "I know I told you that you couldn't return to the places you frequented, at least not to interact. But there's no reason for you to be bound from the mortal realm all the time."

She studied him from across the table, and he saw the comprehension in her green eyes glow as she recalled his words from before. "You said I could go other places, do other things."

"That's right."

"But what would I do?" she laughed, "where would I go?"

He shrugged, but his eyes were alive with something she couldn't name when he spoke again. "You could study art or architecture in Italy or ride Arabian horses in the deserts of Morocco. Drink coffee outside a café in Casablanca, study dance in St. Petersburg, or visit the holy cities in Mecca and Israel. Even raise sheep in Wales."

The look she gave him was amusedly skeptical. "Sheep?"

He shrugged again. "There's nothing wrong with sheep, though they are rather simple-minded creatures."

Lilith giggled, shaking her head at him, managing to appear both impressed and thoroughly baffled at the same time. "Even when implying something's blatantly, painfully idiotic you're always perfectly courteous." Her fork made a gentle clinking sound against the china plate. "And anyway, I don't have money to pay for any of that."

"Money is not an issue for the immortal," he said, draining his glass and letting the flavorful liquid warm his throat.

She merely looked at him, tilting her head slightly to one side like a tiny, puzzled bird and he rose from his seat to reach into the bottom drawer of his desk. When he returned it was with two neatly wrapped packages in hand. These he passed to her, heartily enjoying the exasperation she always saved especially for those who bought her presents.

As he sat, he gestured for her to open them, and putting down her fork she reached for the smaller of the two and began untying the ribbon, an expression of suspicion warring brutally with one of pleasure.

"You could do any of those things I suggested and more," he continued, his eyes following the steady motion of her fingers as she slid them beneath tape and unfolded paper. "Our finances are cyclical. When one of us earns, we deposit the earnings into one of several highly protected bank accounts set up around the mortal world. When one of us has a need for money, even if just for appearances, we take from that fund."

White tissue paper fluttered to the floor, where she left it, because her body had stilled at the sight of its contents: a sleek black Capezio leotard, elegantly stitched and styled, and a pair of still-packaged tights.

She did nothing but stare down at the garments in her lap for what seemed like an hour before she blinked up at him, not bothering to hide the confusion that lay heavy on her pretty face. "I don't understand," she said slowly, as if she might be able to puzzle out the intention behind his gift before she finished her question. "I'm not taking dance classes anymore. I don't need—"

Without a word he pointed to the second package, which she lifted and unwrapped painfully slowly.

She didn't even need to open the box the know what was inside; the off-white color with crisp black lettering and white sizing label told her clearly enough. It housed a pair of brand new pointe shoes. Gambas, the English brand that had been serving her well for three years.

Tied to the box with more pale blue ribbon was a small leaflet of glossy, pale green paper decorated with a stylized depiction of ballet shoes just like the ones in the box. The text was in French, which she couldn't read, but there was a schedule printed on the inside as well as what looked like class descriptions.

At first she said nothing, merely stared, her eyes wide and luminous in the firelight. And then: "Study dance in St. Petersburg…" she echoed, so quietly that even he barely caught it.

"Well, Paris, actually," he amended, "I know how you feel about Russian instructors. You're already enrolled as a visitor, to ensure that the occasionally missed class won't be considered strange."

The next thing he knew, Lilith had launched herself from her chair in a fluttering aurora of tissue and flung herself into his lap, her arms around him and her lips on his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, and finally his mouth, all the while chirping, "thank you, thank you, _thank you!_" He laughed, the sound of it catching in her mouth as she kissed him again, more calmly this time, and with enough feeling to reach inside him and pull his emotion outward.

"I had a feeling you might be missing it" he said when she finally pulled away long enough for him to attempt speaking. "I take it you approve?"

"_Yes,_" she answered, still clinging to his neck, and tucked her face into his throat. "You don't know how much it means to me—not only the shoes and things, and the classes, but just knowing that I…just knowing."

Joy rushed through him with the speed and efficiency of a liquid drug, spilling into him from her touch and the vibrancy of her happiness. He knew what she meant, just as he knew the words wouldn't come. He had felt that same surge of love and fortunate luck of having found such a partner, and if he could have nothing else, he had her happiness. And for now that was enough.

"Will you be taking classes with me?" he heard her ask, the words somewhat muffled by the skin of his throat, but he could hear the faintest hint of mischief beneath the tone.

"Perhaps a few," he mused, "why?"

"So I can see you in those fantastic pants you wore to Jessica's that one time…" He could have sworn he heard her exhale with a dreamy sigh as she pulled back to look at him, her arms still loosely encircling his neck. "You know," she added, "the tight black ones."

Azrael eyed her with a measure of surprise, surprise that did not prevent his lips from curving with a slow, distinctly pleased smile. "Is that so? What a little lecher you've become!"

"I blame you," she retorted sweetly.

"I'll take that credit," he agreed, kissing her cheek. "And perhaps I might be persuaded to break out said pants, if it would please you."

Her answering grin was paired with a frank, "yes, yes it would," and he threw back his head and laughed.

...

The King of Hell alone could walk the entirety of his realm with the complete absence of fear.

He had forged it from malice and rage, spite for the parent that had cast him out for the audacity to voice disagreement, and the land which had been born from his magic and the potency of his passions was as much a part of him as his own flesh. And, as such, it was as volatile as its maker.

While home to the wide variety of species belonging to the demonic race, there were parts of Hell that were deadly even to the citizens it had embraced as its own. Places where only he could linger, paths that only he could follow. Nooks and small, dark spaces where the most nasty and most powerful were wise to watch where they put their clawed, scaled or furred feet. The darker myths of Hades and the human-crafted underworlds whispered tales of landmarks where unspeakable horrors resided; and all legends contain slivers of truth.

The path to Tartarus was not one of these paths open only to its monarch, being a pivotal point of everyday business as one of the realm's largest fiefdoms.

Sometimes the origin of the realm, as an outlet of both rage and necessity, went forgotten. But Hell had undertaken a lucrative purpose upon the expulsion of humanity from Eden, conveniently constructed and full of creatures capable of and willing to dispense divine punishment to human sinners. Though it was unclear how coincidental the convenience had been.

It was also unclear whether divine law approved of the extent to which the Overseers went to perform their practice, or whether Heaven was simply powerless to do anything about it. Negotiation had never managed to adjust the policy of how sinners were dealt with. The Council insisted that if Heaven was so needful of the work done in Tartarus, they had no business telling demonkind how to go about it.

In truth, their king could very well have overruled their refusal had he chosen, because while Heaven leaned toward a more democratic process of decision-making, his realm was very much a monarchy and _he_ was the final word. But he had never raised his voice to on the issue of the rights of the damned.

Rumors whispered that his allowing the policies of the Levels stand despite his loudly spoken disdain for it hearkened back to the cause of his banishment from God's presence and favor. No one seemed to know quite what that cause had been, however, and no one had ever dared to ask, lest the one foolish enough to pose the question ended up on the wrong side of Lucifer's temperament.

It remained one of Hell's greatest mysteries.

Oily shadows radiated outward from the steps he took to descend the wide, shallow steps that led from the Forest of Forgotten Desires. They rippled like inky flame across the stone like colossal wings, curling, lovingly, in tendrils about his feet and faded reluctantly when he took another step. As though the land reveled in its maker's every touch.

A land that knew its king was there and quivered with awareness beneath his feet.

True, he hadn't walked the entire way from the palace across the Wastes. But it was considered the height of poor manners to transport directly into a place that was technically under someone else's jurisdiction, and despite being king, he had given charge of Tartarus to Abaddon. But that wasn't the only reason for allowing the dust of the ground to powder his boots.

He was King, and a king must walk his land. He must walk it to observe and hear the complaints and thoughts of his people, solve disputes, and pass judgment. Always, always judgment.

Shadows blended with the impenetrable blackness of his suit, the sharp cut of the garments complementing the sheets of stone flecked with bits of priceless metals. Black illuminated by the char-colored sky.

Upon coming to the flat ledge which preceded the bridge he paused to observe the structure rising before him.

A massive tower had been erected within the craggy cliff-edges of the Dolor Mountains, ascending to pierce the charred, empty sky and descending to the depths of the unknown. And from below the smooth, glossy stone was illuminated by the brimstone which burned like a fiery moat around its base. Obsidian and glass, shining and beautiful and awful with cold.

It had adopted the original harsh, Gothic beauty of the palaces, but manipulated it with echoes of its own purpose. Its exterior was all sharp, cruel angles, with doorways and window-ledges which drew blood upon contact, spires that jutted from the narrow windows like blades the Overseers might pluck from its walls and use for their art. The thin, narrow bridges which speared outward like a hundred twisted limbs sank into the jagged rock of the cliffs around it, where the more expansive torture chamber resided.

Tartarus had only one entrance and one exit in the form of a single pathway which stretched across the yawning chasm. The path was unguarded. The sky-iron fencing which lined its raised stone edges was more an attempt at humor than anything else; a statement to those sent by judgment that there was no need for a gate, for there was nowhere to run.

A disparaging thought for the common damned soul to dwell on.

There was an element of horror to the torturer's lair which the rest of the realm didn't echo. Whether it was because the entire place contained a sense of forbidding, or because of the steady symphony of screaming which emanated from its chambers, had never been defined.

The utter rarity of his visiting the Halls of Torment was enough to bring a crooked smile to his own mouth. But it was a mouth that did not belong to him.

Those who looked upon him would not have known him, which was, after all, the purpose of adopting the guise in the first place. Only a very select few knew that the King of Hell wandered his realm to enforce his own laws, because he didn't do so when bearing his own face. A monarch demanded too much groveling niceties and not enough cold hard truth. So he had found a way to extract that truth.

With a muted sigh of shadow, he approached the door to what most mortals perceived as the very essence of Hell, his companion and some-time guard walking devotedly behind him.

His ears reverberated with the sounds of punishment and penance. The stone seemed to sing with it, as though the entire structure was a tuning fork and the shrieks and cries of the damned were sweet notes to vibrate along its edges. And the air was tinged, as though permanently stained, with the thick, coppery tang of old blood.

An antechamber, circular and coolly lit, spread out from the entrance. Its floor seemed to radiate from the central point with tiles alternating between squares of stone and human bone, its walls lined with glimmering striations that seemed to emulate the banded pattern of shorn rock.

His steps fell silently, but the guards at the reception counter saw him long before sound would have even reached their ears. Then they saw him, and the realization fell across them with the force of a lash.

He crossed the floor at a leisurely pace, offering the guards at the reception counter time to panic and rush around trying to find ways of making their place of office tidy and suitable for the presence of someone with an officer's rank. He had no need to gift these creatures with civility, but it amused him to watch them in their hurry. They rushed to toss their bits of refreshment away and return to their posts as though he might not have witnessed their lapse in attentiveness, hearing his steps fall like the beat of an anxious heart.

The reception desk was a weapons check and a place to sign in, intended to prevent unapproved visitations and escapes. It was to be manned diligently at all hours with no exception. And yet these had been less than diligent, joking and laughing, snacking on marbled bits of meat.

Were their masters to catch them, punishment for being caught slacking on duty was severe, and the Overseers of Tartarus were not known for their sense of mercy.

It was a reasonable bet that they hadn't thought to fear being caught, especially not by the Devil's own assassin.

The face he wore may have only belonged to a Soldier, but he was well aware of the hushed reverence granted to its real owner, not just for an infamous past, but for sheer, brutish power. The majority of demonkind feared the Starkiller, as was wise. Yet none of these pitiful creatures were capable of the realization that what they saw was only a very well-crafted illusion.

A misplaced piece of gristly bone crunched beneath his heel when he drew near the counter and the orderly line of drones arranged at attention before it. He knew without looking that the edges of it were lined with the marks of needle-sharp teeth. The salty-sweet scent of the marrow drifted upwards to lessen the sour stench of charred, unwashed demonflesh and the cold sweat of fear.

"Master Arawn!" One of the workers cried, a curdled mixture of terror, awe and sharp surprise lining the harsh syllables of Asadic, the most common of Hellish tongues. He was echoed by his fellows as the lot of them dipped their heads in reverence.

Deformed by the taint of the ichor that had poisoned their blood, the guard-workers of Tartarus had originally came from human stock; some of the earliest that had ever been. The first to be damned before godliness had escaped the race. Humanity had been leeched from their souls by a freedom which allowed them access to their capacity for evil.

Horror had stretched and pinched them, thinning the flesh and reworking the seams until all that remained were thin, hollowed remnants of what they had once been, stitched roughly together to keep from splitting apart. Sunken sockets housed their dull, witless eyes. Cheekbones and ribs jutted from beneath filmy skin like waxy masks, and when widened mouths opened, they displayed double rows of sharp, uneven teeth.

They were awful. Yet while humans might have thought them fearful, Hell found them piteous and weak.

"How may we be of service—?" A second drone inquired, wringing hands that were missing several fingers, half broken voice rising and falling with an intonation it obviously hoped came across as helpful and polite before it was interrupted by the third.

"Business with M'lord Abaddon, Sir?" It croaked, its glossy, ditchwater eyes flickering continuously toward the Soldier's foot and the evidence of discretion beneath it. His skin was even more mottled than that of the others, as though patched with hide from another source altogether. "We could call ahead and announce your presence—"

"No."

The single word fell like a stone into water, the sound of it rippling across their twittering attempts to offer assistance and leaving utter silence in its wake.

Lucifer's eyes passed over the line of gangling, mutilated drones, and while they were each at least a head taller than the King they didn't recognize, they trembled beneath the weight of the gaze that fixed upon them with a steady, crushing focus.

Relying on memory and a mild skill for impersonation he leaned back on centuries of interaction with the quiet, purposeful mannerisms which belonged to Arawn. From the way he tilted his head to regard them to the almost gentle lilt of his voice, twisted by magic to echo that of the other man.

"I do not seek the company of the Destroyer," he said, and it was almost amiable in tone, smooth and casually matter-of-fact.

Then, with an agonizing slowness, he ground his heel into the floor, crushing the dropped bit of bone until it was a fine powder upon the stone tile. "Now, which of you passed illegally through the barriers to poach that lovely cut of human flank?"

For a brief moment they squirmed like grubs under the immanent threat of squashing, uncertain as to whether they would rather admit or deny everything. Which would result in the worst penalty?

Lucifer let the shadows gather behind him, let them creep up along the walls and drown out the light from the torches beneath the veil of blackness; the great wings of a demon that had regal, angelic origins. It was a distinction they could not see, only feel. As they could feel his aura swell, filling the farthest corners of the room and crushing the air out through the tiny, infinitesimal cracks in the stone.

It was intimidation, cheap and mostly meaningless, more to hurry the proceeding along than to administer any harm. But it was a common technique, used by many with the magic to perform it, and did its work to garner results.

The drone to the far right dropped to his belly to grovel upon the floor at Lucifer's booted feet, which moved delicately out of range from the touch of its greasy skin.

"Have mercy, Good Master!" he pleaded, "We were merely hungry—we meant no harm!"

Lucifer's borrowed face, handsome and coolly ashen-skinned, was absolutely expressionless. "Mercy, is it? Perhaps you are mistaken."

The third drone choked, "No, Your—" but his denial was cut short by a shriek of pain and fear.

A single white-gloved hand had lifted, and with it there had come an invisible grip to seize the drone by the neck. When those fingers bent an infinitesimal amount, it was to wrench his head backward until the bones of his spine – held in place as though by some immeasurable weight kept them – crackled and popped, muscles quivering with spasms. His fellows flinched away from the sound.

"Answer the question, filth," Lucifer advised softly in the rolling voice and calm temperament of Arawn, "before my patience wears thin."

"It was me, Your Majesty," a voice piped, thin and trembling, pitched high to betray his terror. It belonged not to the drone pinned beneath claws and teeth of magic, but the one with the mismatched skin. The mangled body was twitching uncontrollably, seized by awful tremors as he felt the burn of the gaze upon the exposed back of his neck.

Lucifer was quiet for a moment, merely observing the pitiful display, and his eyes seemed to encompass an expanse of measureless substance and space, all stillness and roiling darkness. Eyes that did not belong to the face he wore. Then, quite calmly, he murmured, "_Finis._"

The movement of his hand was a blur. The release of one body was eclipsed by the rapid twist of thumb and first two fingers which shifted his grip to the other, until it was straining against the snaking tendrils of magic with strength far greater than its own flesh had the capacity to withstand. And when the fingers curled into a fist, the body of the guilty drone snapped neatly in two.

It hadn't even tried to struggle, for struggling implied disagreement and one did not openly disagree with the King's assassin, even if that decree was for one's execution.

Of course, the demon wasn't dead: not as the term would insinuate. The soul was still trapped in the decimated body, awaiting the inevitability of flesh and bone knitting slowly back together until it could walk, talk and be again. It took much more than a snapped spine to destroy a soul, even that of a drone. But it would always carry the scars of what had just happened; a permanent reminder to obey his King's law.

Had he chosen, Lucifer could have stripped the spirit force from flesh and cast it away to shrivel and scorch into nothingness, alive, but forever severed from coporeality. But Lucifer didn't make a habit of wasting his magic on vermin, and certainly never when occupying the guise of another man.

"Now then," he said coolly, "on which Level might I find Malik?"

Neither of the two drones left standing made to assist their felled comrade. To do so would have invited a similar fate, and there was not enough affection shared between them to warrant it. Instead, they leapt into action, stumbling to circle the counter and check the day's assignments for the location in question, virtually quivering in their fear.

"Level sixty-eight, Your Majesty!" one of them finally managed to squeak.

Without a word their king turned his back to them and made his way toward the set of twisting steps that led downward and into the more desolate depths of Tartarus, the floor tiles shimmering in the torchlight as though mirroring the cold cordiality of Lucifer's mood. Once out of their line of sight, he shed his cloak of illusion, tucking it away for later use.

The brutal beauty of the architecture grew increasingly crude and malformed the lower he descended. Soon there was little but the steps, worn and sharp-edged, and the hovering lamps which brightened faintly the nearer they came. Every craggy imperfection in the rock, every crack, every glinting speck of precious metal and stone was put to harsh relief by the globe lights molded from thin sheets of glass muted and tinted with a reddish sheen – bloodglass it was called, treated with the blood of the tormented.

He passed no one, but hadn't expected to. Tartarus was home to none but the Overseers and Taxmasters, all busy at their trade. But as Lucifer's sweeping shadow descended into the depth of the Pits, he could feel the signatures of each and every demon within the expanse of the tower, like tiny glowing sparks of lights at the end of a tunnel he could see somewhere in the back of his consciousness.

The soft whisper of many voices, the dull roar of many thoughts.

His focus could expand to fill the entirety of the realm – from the slums of Gehenna to the shining cities of Pandemonium and Dis – had he chosen. A Godly quality, some said, to be able to touch the minds of every soul within his kingdom, let alone to create an entire plain of existence.

The knowing was from the land he had forged. From his blood and flesh, sunk deep into the roots of the world built upon the heat of his fury and the ice of his vengeance.

There were over ninety levels, all connected by the winding spines of its staircases. Several of these levels belonged to the rule of an individual sin, where the most twisted, dark-hearted souls were sent for an eternity of punishment. Souls so consumed by avarice, lust or hatred that their fate doomed them to a steady state of torment. There were three levels for greed alone.

The rest were in constant flux. Some were home to those souls guilty of specific crimes, genocide or child-molestation, things that called for very particular payment. Some were merely for those souls who harbored bits of multiple sins, or those who were bound for Purgatory and, eventually, redemption. Many in turn never saw the Halls of Torment, but instead served their afterlife in slavery.

Level sixty-eight fell under the rule of Wrath, specifically for the cruel, hateful, vengeful, and vindictive. Those who dealt out pain and suffering driven from anger or depravity that went willingly unchecked could be found there, being treated to some of the agony they had shown such pleasure in giving.

Malik was usually to be found in Pride's domain. But his signature was clear and marked in Lucifer's sight, located in one of the chambers closed off from the raging brimstone core of the realm.

The room was bleak and dark, lit only by several flat, raised basins awash with a fire as red as a gleaming pomegranate seed. Set to heat inside this fire were several tools of a cruel, visceral nature. Malik was at his trade, plying his tender attention on the flesh of one of the three mortal bodies strung up against the rock walls.

While in the higher levels the walls were smooth and polished to a fine shine, here they had been left in the rough, gritty and jagged with uneven points intended to scrape and gouge if the subjects were to attempting cringing away from their tormentor.

The piercing hiss and reek of charring flesh brought Lucifer's eyes to the unfortunate soul being treated to a technique perfected some decades ago by the torturers. The other two were as of yet untouched, but judging by the looks of terror and not quite dormant pain, they were all too familiar with its affects.

A contraption rather like a muzzle of chain links and leather contained a series of hefty, cruelly sharpened hooks which were heated in the flame before being inserted in the flesh along arms, shoulders and torso. The flesh would cauterize immediately around the hot metal, causing a searing pain that would only triple when the hooks were forcibly ripped away.

An acid-salt solution would be poured into each open, bleeding wound before the cuts were stitched together so the burn would fester and travel deep inside the body. Then the process would be repeated in other places until the pain grew too much for the brain to handle.

It was brutal, yes. But there was no denying its effectiveness, and there were far worse techniques used by the Overseers. The creativity behind it was enough to earn it some regard.

The sound of the soul's distressing whimpers brought a cruel smile to Malik's mouth and the demon's fingers pressed a little deeper, lodging one last scalding hook into the waifish flesh of his victim. A short scream rent a hole through the shallow hissing and Malik's smile widened to become a sharp-toothed grin.

None of the torturers cared that they were the distributers of a form of divine justice. They liked meting pain and punishment, spreading suffering, giving birth to discomfort. Their kind were made for such work, and lived for the moments when a subject's spirit faded from pain-hazed eyes. They cherished it more dearly than sustenance.

"With righteousness shall he judge, and he shall smite the earth. And with the breath of his lips shall he slay the wicked."

Lucifer's voice was his own and soft in the dark, faint beside the guttural noises of agony, yet it was common knowledge that the devil rarely had to raise his voice. When he spoke, Hell half-strangled itself to listen.

The Overseer's head turned, ever so slightly, his mouth curving with a smile that bordered on malicious, as though to share his amusement with a fellow. Perhaps he had been expecting one of the Taxmasters bringing tools or more acid. But as his burning eyes alit upon the visitor, the most complex mixture of surprise, caution and awe distilled with fear slid to the fore of sadistic pleasure.

He saw the light fall on the pricey cloth from which Lucifer's clothes had been cut; saw how the darkness of it complimented the icy white of his skin and the bluish black of the hair combed back from his carven face, the harsh shadows pitted in the depths of his hellfire irises. They saw the bones beneath his eyes, so sharp that the cheeks they framed seemed half hollowed, expertly and purposefully carved with a graceful, indefinable beauty.

A great and terrible beauty

Within the span of a second the demon abandoned his victim and dropped to one knee. "Your Infernal Majesty," he murmured, lowering his head in reverence. "I didn't hear your approach. Please, forgive my impudence."

"You are forgiven," Lucifer mused, extending a fine white hand to indicate the demon should rise.

Malik did so, the length of his muscle-laden body unfolding from the crouch to gleam in the shallow flicker of the firelight. The sweat from heat and exertion lent a glossy cast to his skin, streaked his crimson hair, mixed with the wood ash detailing his arms and chest with marks to intimidate and invoke fear.

There was caution in the face that was usually so harsh. Malik watched his King with careful curiosity, wondering, no doubt, as to the reason for the in-person visit.

While not overtly aloof, Lucifer was not generally known to seek out the company of his subjects. The most time he spent with them was during court hours, when the people had the opportunity to voice complaints, seek resolution for their disputes, and ask favors; and Lucifer was not always a reliable presence at court proceedings. It was widely known and accepted that he was solitary by nature, and for good reason.

Amongst even the fallen angels he was singular. He alone had been of the Seraphim, and the shadow of his wings fell heavy upon all who neared him. Because of this, it had become an unspoken truth that if he took the trouble to seek someone out (and while wearing his own face, although that was not known by the common public), it was significant.

Malik knew not to question his King, not even with the intent to appear helpful. Lucifer would get to business in his own time, and it was best not to tempt whatever fate may have come from vexing him.

Lucifer crossed the threshold into the room. Instantly the air seemed close and cramped, the walls and corners of the small chamber creaked beneath the pressure of an aura too vast to be contained in such compressed space.

He approached one of the braziers and its array of heating tools, yet each one fell into the floor, calling to the shadows which converged upon and melded with his shadow. One of the chained souls shrank back upon some instinctual response to the presence of the King of all Demons, and whimpered when her flesh was gouged by the rock at her back. She was ignored.

"I hear whispers that you had a recent quarrel with our Angel of Death," he said, and beneath his piercing gaze Malik stiffened.

The statement might not have seemed dangerous, but it was foolish to make such assumptions. Mention of Malik's not so pleasant dealings with Azrael could mean several things, yet none of the reasons he could imagine were positive. In his attempt to force vengeance upon the angel, he had committed several illegal acts, the most severe of which had been the use of blood magic and the open threat made to one of Heaven's emissaries during peacetime.

It couldn't rightly be said that Lucifer neglected his duties. He may not have been present at every court session or meeting of the council, may not have performed his rounds of the realm as frequently or regularly as he could have; but he met his responsibilities head on. In his own time.

This included, of course, meting punishment to lawbreakers. Even the punishers of the Pits were susceptible to the law, and even if Malik's actions hadn't gone against several accords, Lucifer would have been within his rights to strike him simply for raising a hand to an angel who had once been considered a brother to him.

It never occurred to Malik to lie, however.

One did not lie to the King of Hell. If he couldn't see the lie in your eyes, he would hear it on your voice, smell it on your breath, feel it in the subtle tremors of the muscles, the anxious spasms in the nerves and the speed of the heart. Some said the land of Hell itself could even transmit the echoes of truth to its master.

He did not take well to deception, and the penance for it lived in infamy. More than a few would-be liars had been forced to eat their own lying tongues after having them torn from their mouths.

Measuring his words, he replied with a dismal, "Yes, Majesty."

"In regards to…?"

Lucifer touched gentle fingertips to the handle of a knife forged specifically for the slicing and peeling of skin. The flames which licked at the edge of the blade shuddered, vibrating with the subtle tremor of power which Lucifer wore as subtly as a pair of gloves or comfortable boots, his eyes flickering with a cold, intellectual interest.

That tremor which rippled through the flame seemed to echo inside Malik's body, as though the bit of Hell which resided in his blood were responding to some intangible call. It roiled inside him, urging him to answer. "In regards to my—demotion."

Malik felt the tiny hairs at the back of his neck prickle with awareness as Lucifer's eyes rested upon him, one sleek ebony brow rising in silent request.

It was humiliating to be made to bring up an event that had taken him from the brink of becoming a General to being tossed to the Levels for _gross neglect of tactical flaws_. What would have been the greatest offensive maneuver ever made against Heaven during wartime had never seen life beyond the drawing board, all because of an error of risk to the Kingdom.

The Devil knew full well the cause of his thirst for vengeance, for while Azrael may have been the source of the result, it had been upon Lucifer's order that he was stripped of rank and title. It was part of the reason his answers came grudgingly.

"I demanded recompense for the disservice done to me."

"Ah, I see." Lucifer nodded, setting down the knife. "And yet I do not see what you could have used to convince a hitherto untouchable angel to hear your appeal. How did you get his attention?"

For a lengthy moment Malik didn't speak, averting his eyes as though to conceal hints of reluctance to answer. He was quiet for just a moment too long.

"Speak," came the command, and while Lucifer's lush voice was smooth, calm and almost inviting there was an undercurrent of silvery sharpness that wedged itself between the ribs of the demon before him and squeezed.

Malik stiffened, making a sound deep in his throat that was both choke and gasp all in one. The compulsion tightened like a hand upon his spine, forcing the reply up from his lungs.

"His _l-lover—_"

Lucifer stilled, visibly surprised by the answer he hadn't expected. At first he said nothing, merely considered this with a face utterly devoid of expression beyond a quiet thoughtfulness, his dark eyes flickering with the sparks of the fire. "His…lover," he repeated softly, "I wasn't aware he had found another mate."

Released from the grip of his monarch's Thrall, the ripples of Malik's anger found a smoother path to his voice. "A human woman," he spat, scorn lacing every letter. "He went and enslaved himself to a _woman. _As if he had no shame—"

Suddenly the inert energy of the Devil's aura was flickering with tangible sparks. It seemed as though the air in the small room had thickened in density until it clogged the airways and stuck to the skin. Tiny glints of deepest, iridescent azure lit his colossal shadow and fell to singe the ground, as though the heat of his magic was too great to be contained in his body.

Lucifer's eyes flashed with a blaze of such unspeakable fury that it was nearly blinding to witness, and it was with the fist of that fury which he struck. Malik doubled over as his insides convulsed with pain. It felt as though every cell inside his body had been set aflame, as though the marrow in his bones had been liquefied and now bled, boiling, through his skin. He dropped to his knees, shuddering, unable to scream to alleviate even a trace of the most excruciating agony he had ever felt.

Yet the pain lasted only for the briefest of instants before the grip of Lucifer's spirit energy was withdrawn from his body.

Stunned and shaking like a newborn Raum, Malik didn't need to look to know the startling, seemingly sourceless rage left Lucifer's bearing. It ebbed away, trace by trace, leaving behind an impossible fusion of genial civility and cold, calculating indifference.

It was easy to forget sometimes what Lucifer actually was. Despite all the visible warning, as brilliant as the colors of a venomous snake, he concealed the most deadly of his attributes: his unpredictability. Underneath all the riches and charisma, the charm and grace, that was what the Devil was, the first of all angels to know Heaven's glory, and the first to lose it.

He was law and order; he was unbound chaos, the all-consuming wrath of a dragon. He was unfailingly polite, attentive to the needs of his kingdom from behind the uncaring walls with which he surrounded himself, yet he was remorselessly, effortlessly cruel: the ultimate paradox.

"A human woman, you said. Quite possibly our mysterious, unsanctioned hybrid," he mused, and it was as though he hadn't just used his power to punch through the body of his winded, kneeling subject.

He wasn't even looking at Malik, but down at his left hand where it was raised before his face. With two fingers he folded back the sleeves of jacket and night-dark shirt, baring the pale underside of his wrist and the black lines of the cross imprinted there. Black lines branded into his skin.

"That is unfortunate," he murmured, quiet as the faintest of whispers.

His eyes flickered to Malik, still kneeling and watching his monarch with a wary caution, and he offered a smile that was absolutely void of any outward emotion and smoothed the cuff of his shirt back into place. "And did you discover this woman's name?"

Reluctance didn't prevent the question from snaking into him, curling around the strings of his control and pulling like puppet strings. He fought it for as long as he could out of spite, unwilling to unveil the information to quickly or easily, but in the end it was extracted from him like poison from a wound. "Lilith," he said, the name crushed through gritted teeth, a hatred he dared not show curdling sourly in his blood. "He called her Lilith."

Lucifer's face showed only the merest trace of amusement upon hearing a name humans so devotedly used to refer to a demon that had never existed, though it had no connection to Hell or any of its citizens. The alias had originated in Assyria and was literally translated to mean: _belonging to the night_.

What a fitting name for the bride of Death.

"Thank you," Lucifer said graciously, "I have what I came for. I will leave you to your work."

He had no need to warn Malik away from striking out against an angel unprovoked; it was an unspoken condition to his not extracting a pound of flesh for having broken a number of laws and bypassing the accords. He didn't even need to speak for Malik to hear him. Leniency came from the trade of information. That was all.

And with that, the King of Hell turned and strode from the room. The aura of inescapable weight trailed after him, following in the wake of a power and presence that reached beyond biblical proportions.

He passed back through the Halls unseen by both denizens and walls alike, no longer in the mood to be known by any guise. He remained as such – a part of the air itself – until he had left the district itself, bidding an unfeeling farewell to the grounds of Tartarus and returned to the edge of the Waste where it met the Forest.

His fingertips skimmed along the slippery bark of the gnarled, twisted Enisrose trees as he passed between them, not bothering to watch the long, sharp thorns crane to avoid piercing his skin or the glossy black blooms strain for the barest touch.

Had they been given leave to, the roses would have sunk their thorns into his snow pale skin and drunk of the blood they drew to the surface. The blood of the King was rich and sweet, and potent with magic enough to sustain an entire tree with just a drop or two. But the tree needed no sustenance, and the roses would never have taken without express permission.

Instead, they merely twined about his proffered wrist, snaking back reluctantly when he withdrew the affectionate touch to continue onward.

His attention was not on the roses, though, but on casting his sight out like a net to snare the focus of his thoughts.

Lucifer had never been one to forgo an opportunity to receive information. Even the most apparently useless scraps of fact could be gems beneath the dust sometimes. But this was the first occasion in quite some time where he recognized something of immense value the instant it had come into his reach.

Always having possessed the power to find what he sought regardless of its nature or origin, when he tuned his farsight to the name given to him, with all its meaning and unspoken connection, he found the woman to whom it belonged. A ghost of reality, a shade depicted like a hologram inside his mind, and the mirror of her face appeared to him.

At first glance she was little more than a girl-child, young, soft and cautious. He could see that this woman had known fear and pain aplenty, had been affected by it deeply enough to scar. But gradually the immediate impression of such gentle, troubled youth gave way to a soulful glow. Something about her face belied the nature underneath – the caring and the delicate tenderness, effortlessly compelling and nigh on irresistible.

He could see the unusual strength that lingered beneath the smooth shape of her face, behind the wide green eyes; the potential for a strength that he had seen before. It was a strength she didn't know she possessed, just as she didn't realize her own beauty.

He could see why Azrael had chosen her, why he had nearly gone made for her. Every desiring man wanted a woman who could look at him with enough knowing to counteract the horrors of reality, to take him as he was regardless of the bad and for more than the good. Because of what she had seen, she would love him unconditionally. Azrael had the means to gain such devotion in return for his own.

But if she _was_ the nameless, hidden hybrid, then the angel had turned the woman who was to be his salvation into something he was supposed to abhor, simply so he could save her from the cold touch of his own element.

Upon first hearing of Azrael's inclination to take a human mate, he had been skeptical. He had doubted the rumors of the Almighty having reformed the young seraph's nature in such a way, an assumption he presumed had been due to the chaos of the Rebellion, the Starfall, and his creation of Hell. But the rumors had turned out to be correct.

When he himself had witnessed the Angel of Death deliver the soul of a dead woman to his realm for her sentence – for avarice and lechery – his aura like thunder and his face as cold as stone, it had been impossible to deny the relationship that Azrael had once had with her.

_Had. _

He had seen what the betrayal had done to his younger brother. He had watched his spirit crack, watched the delicate fractures fill with the darkness which had emanated from his soul. Enclosed within himself, sealed away from his pain, Azrael had become something so utterly other from what he was supposed to be that it had crossed Lucifer's mind to attempt ensnaring him.

It was an idea quickly cast aside. Even despite his loathing for the part of himself that ached, Azrael was loyal to his maker. He could not be swayed, which was something it didn't take a master schemer to decipher.

But that woman, whoever she had been, was a paltry, meaningless bit of history next to this. Even when the other woman had betrayed him, Azrael had let her go with only a little flash of temper. Any lasting depression had been a result of general heartache, a dissatisfaction with himself, not a direct backlash of misery totally directed toward the woman herself. From the brutal way he had retaliated to Malik's assault of his new lover was proof enough that this girl was not in the same class as the other. He would have torn Malik apart for her, the consequences be damned.

This girl – Lilith – was different. She was something else; something greater and more, in ways even he, with his sight and his uncanny talent for reading secrets, could not quite comprehend.

Not yet.

But he would. He would decode the Almighty's plans for her, her reason, her purpose, if it took him years. If he had to find this girl and crack her open with his own hands, peel away the layers of her soul to find out what she was and what uses she could have for him, as he had with the angel Sophia and Adam, the first of men, then so be it. Although, doing so would incur quite a significant amount of wrath from Azrael, he knew all too well.

And yet, that in and of itself could be twisted to his advantage. In fact, it may be the trump card he had been searching for. Because if Azrael had been brought to such a low by a woman who had been meaningless in the end, what would damage to this one do to him?

Though it hardly mattered. He would enjoy digging into the marrow of her bones, the inner layers of her veins and cells, and ripping out the subtle truths laid out there like fortunes laid out by runes or Tarot cards. There was nothing he savored more than finding answers to his questions. Such methods had divulged the secrets of magic, its workings, its laws, and the secrets it whispered to only the most devoted and faithful – and those willing to bloody their hands, even if it was with the lifeblood of a pretty young woman.

Such an unfortunate waste. But such was the way of it.

A faint whisper of will split the flesh of his back and called the eagle wings to unfurl from his shoulder blades. They were blacker than pitch, blacker than night, and cut in a powerful downward sweep as he leapt into the air.

His flight back to the palace of Pandemonium was swift and Lucifer took great pleasure in it. Even if the rules concerning Transport in the immortal realms had not made doing so impossible, he would have chosen to fly. He had fallen, certainly, but it was still an integral part of him. He flew under no illusion, with no shields, just himself and the rush of momentum across feathers and skin.

A faceless Noppera servant was awaiting him when he alit upon the wide terrace facing out from his suite of rooms, her dark head lowered in cautious reverence as she knelt to greet his approach, his steps silent but for the soft shushing sound of his wing feathers trailing upon the stone behind him.

"Your Infernal Majesty," she murmured, the wide, jagged, lipless cavity of her mouth barely opening teeth as she spoke. "Is there anything you require? Some supper, or a drink—and perhaps one of the courtesans?"

He paused before answering, his mind falling back not upon the face he had sought out with such care and deliberation, all soft mouth, bright eyes and stubborn chin; but that of another, with features so vastly different and yet still so very similar. The brief moment of silence was ripe with a dark-rooted consideration that might have drawn a shudder from something that felt more emotion than a simple-minded Noppera.

But he wanted no whore, not tonight. And he said so, dismissing the serving woman with a word and a request for a simple meal and solitude.

Solitude in which to think and to plan.

* * *

**It's true, I'm back!**

**And HOLY EFFING JESUS am I sorry for this having taken so freaking long about it too. Seriously. I could go on and on about the sadly large number of ways life has been kicking my ass, making it difficult to write a chapter that was already difficult to write, but I see no need. Just know that it was never my intention to make you wait this long, but circumstances were unavoidable. I can't really articulate how bad I feel about the wait, so I won't try.**

**I have received comments that this second volume seems to drag in plot, and I will come right out and say that I'm positive it does. However, I want you all to keep in mind that all of these chapters are first drafts with only surface editing, not at an in-depth cutting down, meant-to-publish state.**

**I post chapters this way to try and keep the waiting down and because quite frankly I can't really sort out all my ideas until a complete volume is written. Hence why volume I is much more polished and moves more quickly. Also, keep in mind that I have been working on this story (starting with volume I) for almost seven years now, so volume I is simply in a more advanced state of existence. That's simply the way I work, unfortunately.**

**Secondly, I need you all to understand that I'm trying to find a way to deal with time-skips without simply doing something lame like: "Six months later…" because that doesn't work for me. I think I have a plan now, but we'll have to see.**

**All this to say, please be patient with me. You're literally the first people to see these chapters aside from myself and my Beta, and it takes me a long time to polish up my thoughts. Your understanding and time mean everything to me. I will do my best to keep the fillers brief.**

**That said, I want to make a brief mention of "MH Volume I" having been nominated for the Some Kind of Wonderful (SKoW) romance award for Best M-Rated Story. I don't know who nominated me, or if they're reading, but I just want to say thank you. You don't know how much it means to me to have seen this evidence that someone out there supports me enough for nomination. I probably won't win, and the voting is done, but even still. You and your fellow readers are the people for whom I continue to write, for your faith and loyalty in me. Thank you, from the very center of my heart.**

**And now, enough from me. Please, if you have a moment, review for me. I will be, as I always am, extremely grateful. And I hope to update again much, much sooner.**

**My love to each and every one of you!**  
**Until next time!**


	22. White Swan

**Chapter 22**  
**"White Swan"**

Recommended Listening: "I'm Not an Angel" by Halestorm  
and "O Death" by Jen Titus (From Supernatural)

* * *

It hadn't the first time he had been accused of an illegal offensive maneuver outside of the Accords of proper warfare. Being what he was, Arawn was familiar with the fallback which often came with his trade, and he had undertaken his post as the Devil's Assassin knowing full well the lines he would have to tread in the course of his work.

He had been hauled out in front of ambassadors from Heaven's Assembly (their version of Hell's Council) to address charges so many times that he couldn't recall the exact number. None of these charges were pursued due to lack of proof – he was good at his work, tidy, careful, and diligent. But it was the first time the accusations had been _false._

The transgression had been made in late spring, an attack upon one of Azrael's lieutenants within the Accord-protected walls of the Eyrie by something which had taken the bearing and appearance of a Mazikim and left Arawn's own personal marks upon Ezekiel's wounds. He'd had little doubt that Azrael would see that he hadn't been responsible – the angel was a good truth-reader – but being spared Azrael's wrath and the possibility of real punishment did not answer the question of who had sought to frame him.

There were several possibilities, some of which he could dismiss upon the sheer grounds of moral impossibility or simple lack of motive. With others, he couldn't afford to be so lenient.

Yet it was one in particular whom he suspected above every other potential mage strong enough to rewrite magical signatures. That one was Balael. Not only did she have the power, but she had the drive to fuel taking such an aggressive move against him; because she made no secret of her hatred for him.

Perhaps hate was a little strong. Derision or dislike might have more accurately described it, but within the mind torn half apart by madness, even the smallest sliver of emotion was magnified, and her feelings for him were not all that small. Complicated, confusing, twisted, scarred, and strange certainly. Simple? Certainly not.

A human might have thought it odd to go so long without confronting the person who had potentially tried to frame them for war crimes they hadn't committed. But time flowed differently for immortals than for humankind, and the months passed since the transgression had been made seemed no longer than moments depending on the point of view.

In truth, he couldn't quite tell whether it was because he had been busy at drills with the rest of the army, or because he had merely convinced himself that was the reason.

The Soldier in him wanted to deny all forms of weakness, including those implied by his unhealthy obsession with the demon woman he sought with such a focused drive. A woman whom he no longer knew if he loved or simply wanted. But the soul inside him which didn't so much care about appearances, or the respectability of his titles, was fairly certain he had been stalling, avoiding this encounter because of its potential to undo all the progress he had made.

The Red Room (or the Rudý Pokoj in the native Czech) was much the same as any other club situated in the human world; full of strobes and rich, colored lights, pounding music, harsh surfaces and plush décor, with plenty of dark niches ideal for cavorting. It was demon owned, and one of an assortment _not_ under the watchful management of the Crown Prince. Which made it much more of a risk for human patrons.

Set in the belly of a world still old enough at heart to remember darker, more dangerous times, people could disappear behind its walls never to be seen again and no one would question it. Not even the occasional member of the Heavenly Host.

But that was due to laws, not any lack of diligence on their part.

There was a generous amount of glass in the Red Room. Great sheets and panels of it: clear and polished within its twisted metal framework. A slap to the face of any angel aware of what went on inside. It didn't bother to hide the hints of things it harbored, the unspeakable things which passed there, swallowing unsuspecting humans alive. And there was nothing to be done about it, because without proof, no angel could instigate a raid against the place.

It wasn't a poor assumption that she might be there, in a place so secluded from any hand of judgment, and his instincts – always having been rather sharp – were right.

Sure enough, there she was. Tucked in a corner, innocent as could be, tempting the soul from some poor, love-struck sod. The man had no idea how very out of his league she was, this woman who seemed so small and fragile that she might break under a hard glance. Or perhaps he did and simply didn't care…she was lovely, after all.

Gathered flounces at the back of her gown, trailing from the bustle, hearkened back to Victorian London, which, now that he considered it, was probably the last time he had seen so much of her skin covered. A modesty which rather than discouraging the instinctive sparks of lust, fanned them. The rich black cloth with its tiny white polka dotted pattern clothed her with a touch of whimsy, her corset emphasizing the taper of her waist into the flare of her hips. A neckline which dipped to a narrow point framed a tantalizing slice of white skin.

All that black against her whiteness, the brilliant garnet of her hair, long enough to brush her shoulder blades and softly, wildly curled, whispered an invitation he knew he should ignore. His fingers itched to undo the buttons and tug the ribbons free at her back, so he curled them into his gloved palm, the better to ignore the urge.

She was more difficult to resist than he would have liked to admit, but in hindsight, that was probably why she had let him so close those months ago during Carnivale.

The relationship he had with her was complicated at the best of times.

Of course, the word _relationship _implied an intimacy that they didn't have. Hadn't had. Now he wasn't so sure _what_ it was.

It wasn't uncommon for demons to form relations with each other, whether the bond was platonic or not. But these relationships were never simple, and neither he nor Balael could be considered among the norm. He was an assassin, something of a social outcast possessing a violent and masochistic streak, and she was madder than a hatter, and vengeful. A wonderful pair they would have made.

He wasn't sure at what point she had become more than just a peer, more than a sympathetic figure and something that he wanted to the point of desperation. Perhaps he had lusted even before she had been thrown from Heaven, before her self-sentenced confinement and the rape that had changed her forever.

And she had ceased to be an angel peer and become something intoxicating.

He had looked at her, both of them newly Fallen – her wide-eyed and half-crazed, he armored and bristling with knives – and he had wanted her, this beautiful broken thing. He had looked at her when Abaddon had left her, bleeding from flayed back, slit wrists and from between abused thighs, shimmering with other, fouler fluid still. He had looked into her eyes, so eerily pale a green that they had cut into his soul, and knew that he would go to the ends of the earth to have her.

As if it would be easy.

Nothing about her was easy, not her manner, not her humor, not her words or her hidden weapons, nor her moods. She had sworn off demon men and he, being young and tuned by aggression and impetuousness, action and force, had not gone about proclaiming his suit in a way that might have gained him favor.

Unfortunately for him, Balael was not inclined toward demon men. It had been the love of the demon King that had damned her, and she would have been glad for it if not for the fact that he had betrayed her, sent his son to use and abuse her.

It didn't matter that he was neither Devil nor the Devil's son. He was demon, and he was the on the Devil's payroll, therefore he was no better and just as deserving of her wrath. And she was ever so good at delivering.

At least four times he had approached her – whether by intentional tracking or happenstance. Four different occurrences where he had made his desires clear, and each of those occasions had ended with him bloody and his body dying. Dazed by the sight of one of her coy, crazed little smiles for she knew, all too well, the power she held over him.

She was a butterfly of iron, delicate and hard.

She could be as sweet and innocent as a child in one breath and a raging wildcat in another, vicious and seductive. She used her prey before throwing them aside, drained them to within an inch of their lives.

He wanted her still, no matter her shattered mind or her bloodthirsty temper. He was as bloodthirsty as she, as violent-natured, as hard-hearted, except for where she was concerned. But she couldn't see how gentle he was with her, even when she rent him to meat, because she didn't notice when he didn't strike her back.

Yet he had thought perhaps, finally, she had. At Carnivale he had approached her hoping for a kiss, but he had never expected what she had given him: letting him touch her, feel her, taste her, fill his senses with the scents of her skin and hair and other, softer, earthier things. True, he had allowed her to feed from him first, but energy was energy. Flesh was something else entirely.

Perhaps she had enjoyed it enough to allow him closer than she had planned, but ultimately it had been manipulation.

He had thought he could live with that, as he had lived with her stabbing, slicing, shooting, and draining him so many times in the past. He had never minded her emotional responses to fight him, as her rationale was not as it had once been and her reasons were logical. But he didn't have to like that she had used him for political maneuvering.

He may have understood it, but he didn't like it.

Stalking her like a predator (if predators ever stalked something capable of maiming them as efficiently as she was), he approached the corner where she cuddled up to her chosen prey for the night. A brute of a man, hulking compared to her delicacy, squared and massive. His eyes followed the human's crudely tattooed hands as they swept along the line of her waist and made a beeline for the hem of her skirt. But those fingers never managed to pull the fabric up as they intended.

"What the—!" The human man spluttered, shooting a hard jailbird glare toward the force that had yanked him away by the bend of the elbow.

"Walk away," Arawn's tone was cool and neutral, but when he met the human's eyes, the brute backed away, instinctively aware that despite his deceptively smaller stature, the demon man was not to be trifled with. Under the pretense of not caring, he wandered away, seeking another drink and a girl that lacked any hidden defenders.

Balael huffed, the short exhale sweet with the smell of absinthe and snaring his senses with an attraction so sharp that he felt it pierce him between the ribs and clutch at his insides.

"If you keep running off my meals like this, I'm going to starve," she chastised, making as if to slip by him, the cloth of her dress brushing his trousers.

He gripped her slim shoulder, pressing the heel of his hand into the arc below her collarbone and shoving her none too gently into the space of wall between the shelter of decorative drapes, cloistered away from the unveiled glass of the windows.

She made a small sound at the back of her throat and her eyes lifted, pale green gems set within graceful black lines. An exaggerated teardrop adorned one cheek, slipping from one of those eyes, a decoration he had never before seen upon her face, and for a moment it held his focus, catching him with questions as to its meaning.

For a split second he thought he saw her face shadow with surprise, but it faded before he could be sure into something that reflected the slightest touch of bemusement.

"You've never tracked me down so quickly after a rendezvous before," she mused, slender fingers lifting to toy with the collar of his shirt. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Or were you jealous?"

The way she half-whispered the word, breathy and soft, was like a hand reaching into his chest and pulling. She was right, of course – he _was_ jealous, but admitting that to her would earn him nothing.

He reacted defensively, gripping her wrist and hurling it away from his throat, slamming the back of her hand into the wall, eliciting another of those delicate, scandalized noises that made him want to sink his teeth into her flesh and tear the skirt from her legs.

Questions poured into him, hazing all thought of why he was actually there. Did she like pain? He did, when it was her hand behind the sting of it. He was dominant, no getting around that, but for her he tended to lean toward something more submissive than usual, longing for the attentive touch of her nails, her teeth, even the damned riding-crop he had once witnessed her use on one of her victims.

The thought of it wound into a growl which shuddered, deep and low, from his chest, and he utilized all that soldier's training to exert the control to keep from simply _acting._

Oh, she had might quite the pretty masochist out of him, hadn't she?

He could feel the tiny bones in her hand crackle, and yet laughter bubbled from her throat, light and cool as water, a mirth stained by a sliver of hysteria. A hilarity that was too harsh to be anything but insane. No longer the tame thing she had once been.

Part of him would always mourn the loss of the docile innocence of the madness within which she had first taken shelter. It had been sweet and childlike, easy to see through eyes warmed by instinctual urges to protect, to calm and to love.

But there was a far larger part of him, which had been more natural than even that of his Heavenly self – a part which reveled in blood and battle – which craved and worshipped the pure, brutal wildness her insanity had become. Her manic strength and raging emotions, nonsensical and tormented, spoke to him. She touched him in ways that brought out the very best and the very worst in him.

And he was trying to extract information out of her; something made difficult by the powerful allure she was capable of casting over him.

Crushing her wrist into the brick, he pressed closer, until the only space left between them was paltry at best, defined by the whisper of cloth to cloth.

"Did ye try t' frame me, Bal?" he murmured, so softly that it could have been mild. But she knew better than to believe the misleading nature of that calm, knew that to judge his mood, she would be wise to pay attention to the very thin sliver of blue about his pupils to recognize just the barest flash of temper.

He didn't like to show temper to her. It seemed pointless, underhanded, when she was already so damaged. But he found that he couldn't quite help the reaction upon acknowledging that she had used him, when he had so vividly hoped he had managed to bridge some of the distance keeping her from folding willingly into his arms. It was in his blood: the brash, impulsive, brimstone-tainted part of himself that had not faded as much since his youth as he might have thought.

Frustration was no excuse, but he couldn't help it. He had been so close to proving her wrong, so close to showing her the difference between himself that those that had abused and tormented her, and she had pushed him away. Effort wasted, all for naught. He mourned that lost chance like one would a deceased partner.

Just as well, because she already knew his lusts were for more than just her flesh, something which her shattered mind could no longer handle. He no longer wanted to merely possess her, but she could never trust something so pure, and not from him. But he was still demon, and still so very attuned to her.

She was regarding him with a mixture of disbelief and thorough, wicked amusement, her green eyes pale and luminous in the pinkish light of the building. Her body shifted ever so slightly, and he could feel the brush of her hip against his thigh, uncertain as to whether it had been intentional or un.

"Why would I do that?" she inquired, as cold and frank as ice. She didn't bother asking what she was supposed to have done…but then, she probably already knew. Who knew how many corners she had her ear to.

"The real question," he corrected stiffly, forcefully stomping on his temper and adjusting so her skirt was no longer bunched so invitingly between their legs. "Is why wouldn't you? I'm sure you could find an excuse—revenge of a kind for Venice, perhaps."

A single garnet eyebrow rose. She looked genuinely startled, as though such a notion hadn't actually occurred to her. "Was I supposed to want revenge for Venice?"

He paused, a bubble of shock bursting inside his chest. She didn't want payback for how he had treated her? He had all but accosted her, and while it hadn't been the first time, it had been the closest he'd come to doing what he'd wanted to do with her since he had first laid eyes on her. And it had been brief but utter ecstasy.

For simply having the nerve not only to touch her, but to shake some of the foundations of her hate for demon men, he had expected her to seek him out and tear into him with magic or claws. But apparently she had considered shoving a shiv between his ribs and leaving his body to die in the heat of the moment a satisfactory form of payment. But that didn't sound like the vengeful little creature she was, and he wasn't positive he dared to believe it.

"I heard you defended milord's Ladylove."

"I—what?" He stared, puzzled. "That isnae an answer. Or a reason."

"Isn't it?"

She smiled then: a soft, slow smile that seemed to draw his eyes right to her lips, to the deep red paint which leant them a mouthwatering sheen. The ache he felt to throw caution and the search for truth to the wind and press his mouth to those lips seemed to burn a hole through his twisted soul. Which she knew very well it did.

It took him a moment to regain his focus, but once he did he realized what she meant.

Her Lord…she still viewed Azrael as such when it suited her, and he had defended Azrael's ward and mate when a lesser demon had posed a threat. His claims that doing so was intended to curry Balael's favor had been partially joking, not intended to be taken seriously. And yet…

She wasn't lying. There was no effort being used to hide or conceal the plain, blunt truth from him. She actually seemed peevish about having to explain herself, for despite the appeal of that smile there was a hint of annoyance beneath it.

"So you didn't frame me. Yet you're still upset with me. Why?"

She quirked a single garnet eyebrow at him, offering a glance that was both quizzical and mischievous. "Should I be upset with you? And here I thought we had bonded so nicely the last time we met—"

He caught the defensive flare of feeling in her face just before it heated into action and growled, low and softly in his throat. Angling his grip on her shoulder so that her back was pressed flush to the wall, his other hand snaked down her arm to snatch the small, thin concealed knife she had been sliding from her sleeve.

"Bonded, hmm?" he repeated, slipping the knife into his pocket before renewing his grip upon her upper body. "I didnae realize bonding with you required a blood sacrifice."

Her laughter danced along his spine, pouring down from his ears and directly into the nerves. It was harsh laughter, though, not like rain, soft and tinkling, but like broken glass; laughter that came from the manic fit that caused her to buck against his restraint.

He pretended he didn't feel pleasure when her struggle caused a delicious friction between their bodies. An advance was not what she needed right now. What she needed was security, confirmation, and acceptance.

It was not in his nature to be understanding or soothing. It wasn't his nature to be gentle or kindly, but for her, a butterfly with broken wings to match her broken mind, such traits came easily. To her, he was another demon man, just like the ones that had done her so much wrong in the past, and she had no way of differentiating between him and her tormentors. Not without help.

"Why do you keep fighting me so?" he asked her, seizing her by the wrist to prevent impact when she hissed and her hand lashed out to strike him across the face, as though she intended to cut her palm open upon his cheekbone. "What have I done to earn such hatred?"

She made a noise; her lips parting to give life to a word he knew without knowing would become a spell. He ducked his head, pressing his ashen mouth to her scarlet one, silencing and swallowing the magic before it could tear him away from her, cast him back, render him immobile, or, if he was very unlucky, to rend him open and spill his guts upon the floor. But he was careful not to allow the moment to carry him away, so very careful not to breach the sanctuary of her lips despite how much he wanted to.

When he felt her go still beneath his touch, her hand growing slack against his grip, he drew back to look at her.

Something in her eyes had darkened, citrine green sliding into something startlingly close to emerald, and for the first time in a very long time Balael appeared confused, and – to his shock – unnerved.

It was almost as though that last, thin barrier between innocence and complete madness had never been broken. As though she was still that hurt, tearful woman-child that had locked herself in solitude to heal, before that safety had been shattered and she had been torn apart, left to rot in grief and pain. As though if he tried, he might finally reach her.

Softly, he spoke: "Do you fear I'll hurt you as the Prince did?" so very tenderly as he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, willing her to let him in.

But the moment was gone in a flash.

Her hand clenched into a fist full of his shirt, her nails digging grooves into the muscle beneath, her eyes flickering with a blaze of pure, undiluted rage. She twisted, that fury fueling a strength accessible only to the maddened, and threw him away. To his good fortune, there had been a low-set couch there to cushion his fall, but the impact still drew a dull pain.

She advanced on him, predatory and malicious, and it was difficult to deny that seeing her thus – beautiful and insane, prepared to deal a most pleasant kind of pain – was enough to heat his blood. He was certain she would kill him, because surely she couldn't have had only one weapon on her. But to his surprise, she fell demurely into his lap, perching upon his thighs, and reached out to touch his lower lip with the tip of her finger and wiping away the traces of her lip paint.

"I don't fear you, Starkiller," she mused, "nor do I desire you."

He had never heard her lie before, and it shocked him to the core. Because even though it seemed so fitting for her to lie through her teeth, she never had, not to his face. But he could feel it, like a subtle discoloration or wrongness in the pattern of her voice. Each portion of that statement had been false.

She did fear him, not his strength or his magic, or his blades, but what allowing him close could do to her. She had allowed herself intimacy with another man before, so long ago, and it had been the catalyst for what had eventually wrenched her asunder, and her instincts had closed off to the idea of any chance of repeating the experience.

He was too potent, too defined and too assertive to be cowed by her in any real way. Even this show of submission was no more than that – a show, a gesture, and that frightened her.

But she also wanted him, enough to keep warring with herself so caustically that she appeared two-faced and crazed. She wanted him because of that forceful selfishness and underlying aggression, the bloodthirstiness and power, and the care which reminded her that some part deep inside herself still hungered for kindness and even love. But she would not admit it. Not now.

The shift in emotion rippled across her face. The line of her jaw seemed to gentle, her eyes darkening with something that no longer resembled madness, loathing and anger, but that was childlike in honest puzzlement as she studied him.

He saw the fingers of her hand clench, white behind the veil of black lace of her gloves, and knew that the remnants of temper wanted to punch that hand straight through him.

But instead she forcibly straightened her fingers to lay the tips of them against the breast pocket of his waistcoat. "Someone's been using your image," she said, quietly enough that he had to apply slightly more focus than usual to hear.

"What—?" he began, startled.

"Someone walking around in a copy of your skin," she said, a sing-song sway to her voice that made him want to move his head like a cobra in thrall. Her eyes were fixed on something far away, unhinged, like a mind hanging on the edge of an abyss. "To punish lawbreakers and…oathbreakers. I saw you and it wasn't _you._"

His hand rose almost without his conscious will, settling upon the hand she had laid against his chest. The gentle touch seemed to steady something inside her, bringing her focus back to him smoothly and swiftly, and quite clearly erasing the traces of tension sparking along her aura. He couldn't remember a time when his touch had served to soothe a fit before it even happened. He wondered when she had become so attuned to him, enough that simple contact could ground her.

It almost drove the information that someone had been wearing his image to dispense justice – if it_ was_ justice being meted – right out of his head.

_Almost._

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked her, tracing the pattern of lace across the back of her hand, so tiny and fragile beneath his own.

Her eyes met his with a swift clash of green and gray, causing the thin ring of blue around his pupils to swell nearly to engulf his irises. "Payment," she said softly, her fingers tightening briefly in the fabric at his chest. "For a kindness you once did me."

She slid away, rising to her feet and turning to leave him – still with that look of sweet uncertainty on her face – and disappeared amidst the crowds.

He was left sitting there, stunned and slightly mussed. For once he had escaped an encounter with her completely uninjured, unbloodied, and almost completely whole. And the words she had left him with; payment for a kindness. The kindness he had done for her all those countless years ago…when he had lifted her from her torn, blood-soaked nest of blankets and washed her skin, and the cuts which had flayed it open, clean.

When he had put aside his own feverish wants to help her. When he had shown her care, something closer to love than anything she had known.

He had partially assumed she had forgotten, but evidently that wasn't the case. She remembered, and the memory meant something to her still after so long. He realized then that maybe – just maybe – he truly was getting through to her. Slowly, but surely.

...

The boy taking up residence in the house of Mark and Sarah Weston had appeared seemingly from out of nowhere. The widespread story was that he had been adopted, which most took without further question despite that they hadn't given him their surname, instead having him retain his own, something French. Teachers and counselors and family friends took it in stride, remarking on the oddness of this only to themselves.

He was a beautiful child, with a sweet round face and chestnut hair. And it was as if somehow his precious looks made up for everything strange about him…including the exceptional shade of violet his eyes were.

This wasn't to say Cillian Gandion was anything but a good boy, because that was exactly what he was. He was never anything but well behaved – almost too well behaved, in fact – and he was quiet, studious, and retained the concentration levels of a child much older in age.

He loved to read, enjoyed word problems, and was increasingly fascinated by the components of chemistry and botany found in his school science classes. His reading level was extremely advanced, as were his cognitive thinking scores. He spoke with eloquence and a generous vocabulary; and he was only ten years old. A small-bodied miracle.

In truth, neither he nor his adopted parents consciously realized just how advanced, not to mention how large, he was for his apparent age. He was only six months old, and the crown of his head already reached the level of Sarah's waist. Yet he grew with a rapidity no one saw, and the older he got the more quickly that growth occurred.

It was the only major thing which marked him as unusual to the point of being almost alien; but it was a detail that any human who looked at him would promptly neglect to notice.

Though incapable of recognizing the oddness surrounding the child she had taken as her own, Sarah was aware how very serious Cillian was. He was smart, absorbed knowledge like a sponge, and viewed the world with a seriousness that was interesting for such a young boy. This wasn't to say he didn't play or laugh like other children, because he did, and often. It was just that ever since he had begun to walk and talk, his personality had shone through as thoughtful and observant.

The quietness, Sarah wagered, came from Lilith, who had been soft-spoken for as long as she could remember. The rest, she assumed, must have come from his father.

She had only really met Adrian once, and it hadn't been long enough to garner much about him. But it had been enough that she could see parts of him in the little boy – not only his unusual eyes, but his high level of self-awareness and capacity for learning.

Being almost too advanced to make friends, Cillian was often alone. The strange thing was it didn't cause him any detriment. He got along well with his classmates, his teachers spoke nothing but praise, and the children's counselor they'd taken him to once hadn't found anything wrong; no abandonment issues, no social problems, no difficulty relating to the world. He was simply reserved.

At that point, Mark had advised her not to worry, and she had acquiesced. Why fret about something for no reason?

He was a good boy. There was nothing wrong with a little individuality.

Of all the things her friend had done for her, Sarah was sure this was the one that touched her heart more deeply than anything else.

Lilith had been with her during her high school pregnancy scare and with her when she had miscarried. She had sat with her, run to the store for chicken soup makings and chocolate and iron supplements, brought her ice for cramps and held her when Sarah cried and cried for what had felt like endless hours without a peep of protest. Lilith had known how badly she had wanted children, and how sharply the news she probably never would had cut her.

And of all the places Lilith could have sent her child when she had learned she couldn't keep him – for reasons Sarah didn't know – Lilith had chosen to send him to Sarah.

Even knowing Lilith had never talked about wanting children, Sarah had long known her friend was the kind of person who would devote herself entirely to a child. The fact that Lilith had trusted her so much as to leave something so precious in her care…

Thinking of it still brought tears to her eyes.

Sarah didn't cry easily, but thoughts of Lilith – where she was, whether she was all right, whether she was happy – sometimes brought her close. She missed her girl. She missed their in-house movie dates with homemade pizza and cider. She missed talking late into the night and early morning about everything from life-happenings to the hidden complexities of book characters.

She wasn't sure when she would see Lilith again, or if she ever would…though she desperately hoped so. She hoped that her theories based on the letter which had been left with an infant Cillian on their doorstep were founded; that Lilith was somewhere in Europe with Adrian, praying that he had been relocated and wasn't in the Middle East anymore for both their sakes. She hoped they were safe and well.

There was really nothing to prove this, but nothing to disprove it either. All she had was hope and tenacity, and love she had carried over from the mother to the son.

At first she had expected the change of becoming a small family to be difficult. But Cillian had settled into her newly married life with Mark as seamlessly as if he had been made to fit there. Her new husband had taken to a baby not his own with the grace of a saint, proving to her that he didn't care if they did no more than adopt. He doted upon the child, bringing home toys and books, teaching him how to play football and encouraging his interest in academics.

Mark's enthusiasm and obvious adoration of the little boy had melted her heart.

It would be their first Christmas together, and Sarah was looking forward to it almost to the point of giddiness. They were planning a fancy antipasto dinner in with a movie and eggnog, and since today was Mark's last day of school before winter break, Sarah was going to take Cillian on a trip to Pike Place Market for some foodstuffs and a last minute gift or two.

She woke about an hour after Mark, bidding him a good day and setting to work on pancakes – the special kind her mother used to make, with cranberries and powdered sugar.

When she had enough to be getting along with, she went to wake him.

"Cillian!"

Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she paused outside the boy's room, rapping gently at his door with her knuckles as she called him.

"Come on, sweetie. Time to get up!"

She didn't realize he was already awake, and had been for a while. Though still abed, he was staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars dotting his ceiling, greenish-white in the early sunlight. At the sound of his foster mother's voice, he obediently sat up and slid from the covers and set his teddy bear gently aside, slipping his feet into blue dinosaur slippers which perfectly matched his pajamas, and went to join her in the kitchen.

Cillian padded into the dining room, hoisting himself onto one of the bar stools at the counter like he always did. The fact that it wasn't a school day made breakfast much more relaxed than usual. Breakfast almost never took place in pajamas.

Sarah was humming to herself as she flipped pancakes and squeezed oranges for juice, bustling about her kitchen. She was alive in festive shades of green, and clearly in a fantastic mood. Mark was at work, the last full day of teachers meeting before he, too, was on break. They were going to have a celebratory dinner and movie-date when he got home. Part end-of-school party and part early Christmas thing, as Sarah had called it last night.

Cillian watched his foster mother cook for a moment or two, swinging his legs gently to and fro. Then his eyes began to wander, young as they were, over toward the mantle in the living room which was decked in garland and lights, and then the bookcase. And one of the framed pictures there.

He was quite familiar with the subject of that picture. He should be, after all the time he had spent studying it. It was of Sarah and her best friend, a pretty brunette, taken some years ago in Pioneer Square, the two girls embracing and smiling for the camera. Usually he wouldn't have been interested beyond a glance or two like any normal child, but this particular picture was of genuine fascination for one reason alone: it depicted his mother.

Not Sarah, his foster mother, but his _real_ mother. The one about whom he could remember only snippets: snatches of singing, the touch of a warm hand, and a sadness he could almost feel.

Sarah and Mark believed in being truthful with their foster son, and had explained to Cillian that they were not his real parents, a revelation he had taken it with shocking amounts of comprehension and clarity, as if it was something he had already known.

Sarah had shown him that same picture, pointing to the brunette girl and telling him: "this is Lilith—your real mother."

"Where is she?" he had asked solemnly. "Did she have to go?"

"Yes, baby," Sarah had answered after a brief, panicked glance in Mark's direction. "She sent you to us because she couldn't take care of you. But she wanted to, sweetie." Cillian remembered her taking him into her arms and tucking his head against her shoulder, remembered feeling her breath catch in her throat as though holding back tears. He remembered Mark's hand gripping her shoulder. "She wanted to very much."

It was at that point he had started calling them by their given names.

In the days that had passed he had stared so long at Lilith's heart-shaped face and shyly laughing green eyes that the photograph had been imprinted in his mind. It was a face he recalled with both affection and questions. Questions he hadn't asked because he had somehow sensed it would have just made Sarah sad.

"Here you go—"

He turned back to the counter just in time to watch Sarah flip a fresh pancake off the griddle and onto a plate for him. She slid it over with a glass of milk and a glass bottle of real maple syrup. It was hot and smelled delicious, and caused his stomach to make a loud, hollow rumbling noise. Grasping the syrup with both hands he tipped the glass mouth over his plate and poured it into delicate circles in the top of the pancake.

Sarah smiled, pinning her red hair back against her head with red and gold barrettes. "Eat up," she said, "When you're done we'll go to the Market and pick up some things for dinner. Sound fun?"

He looked up at her, nodding enthusiastically around his forkful of cake.

She laughed and leaned over to kiss the top of his head. "Well, then, little man, we'd better hurry before it gets crowded!"

Cillian scarfed down his pancakes in record time, then allowed Sarah to bundle him into his coat, hat and mittens. A tickle war was engaged amidst the donning of his rain boots, which ended in masses of giggling and winter clothes strewn all down the hall and through the living room. By the time they were bundled back up again it was nearly eleven.

The bus ride down toward the waterfront was slightly hectic, busy with shoppers and people running errands or on the way to lunch. But Cillian was happy enough among the bustle, avidly watching the back and forth flow of traffic both on wheels and feet out his window until it was time to get off.

Pike Place Market was often referred to as the _Soul of Seattle. _And for good reason: considering it was one of the largest and longest running farmer's markets in the United States. Its nine acre space contained nearly everything from locally grown produce and fish to gift shops, bakeries and restaurants. It was home to street performers, musicians and choice imported goods. And everywhere was a feeling of warmth, of camaraderie and the artisan spirit.

It was both a piece of history and a piece of home all wrapped up in something equally old fashioned, fascinating, and wonderful.

There was no snow, nor even rain (which was lucky for this time of year), but there were still patches of frost where the light hadn't yet warmed enough to melt it. But even without the whiteness the place held a strong sense of what was, essentially, winter. The immense "Public Market" sign was alight even in the gray wintry daylight, and everywhere strings of Christmas lights hung like glowing garlands to create colored patterns on the cobbled street just outside.

Sarah steered Cillian in by way of the main western entrance, towing him gently by the hand and bestowing upon him the momentously important task of carrying their empty shopping bags. The boy adopted his duty with a solemn acceptance and went back to staring around at the crowd of people swarming through the narrow hallway.

Stalls and tables lined both sides of the isle, smells of cinnamon and spice and cooking food interspersed with the subtle tang of many bodies concealed in close space. All of it somehow magical in ways a mind so young couldn't quite articulate even to himself.

Sarah wove along with the flow of the crowd, patient and unhurried. She pointed out things of interest when they passed; hand-woven baskets and carved wooden puzzle boxes, puppets and toys. There was sparkling handcrafted jewelry and knits, canned and dried goods, wines, fishmongers throwing huge Alaskan Salmon back and forth over the heads of a delighted audience.

They stopped at a produce stall for fresh pears, small Christmas oranges and cherries, at a stall with local- and California-made cheeses, a log of nice salami and a box of smoked Salmon.

Sarah bought a fresh baguette from a bakery for toasting and artisan crackers. She bought cocoa and apple cider, spicy-scented candles for the house and a beautiful pottery bowl glazed with copper and blue as a gift for her mother. And when Cillian was busy watching a man picking out popular Christmas tunes on a Ukulele, she made a quick purchase of one of the wooden dragon puppets he had eyed with such curiosity and wonder a moment before.

Soon the bags they'd brought were full and the crowd was filling in to an almost uncomfortable level after the small lull of lunchtime. So they made their way back to the street, pink-cheeked and laden with shopping.

Unsure whether she wanted to stop or head back home for lunch, Sarah led Cillian back up the hill toward the stores and lights of the busy road.

She had stopped for a green light, studying the café just across the way when – out of the blue –Cillian asked: "what was my father like?"

The question caught her so off-guard that at first all she could do was gape, staring down at the little boy who peered back up at her with such earnest violet eyes beneath his knit green hat. She took no notice of the odd form the words had taken; the strangely grown-up usage of the word _father_ in place of _dad _or something equally childlike, but for a moment simply floundered, not knowing how to answer.

What was she supposed to tell this child about a man she hadn't really known?

"He was…"

She cast about for something to say; hardly aware that she was missing the white sign which indicated pedestrians could cross. Her eyes skimmed the people milling about the sidewalks, aware that Cillian was still regarding her, steady and quiet.

What did she remember about Adrian?

The immediate recollection was those strange eyes of his, eyes mirrored perfectly in the face that was so undeniably his son's. The next was that he'd been an incredibly attractive man. Not just his looks, either. There had been something magnetic about him, something which drew people to him whether by compulsion or natural ease. He had been exceedingly patient with her attempts to bully him into promising to treat Lilith right, had seemed well-read and intellectual, street-smart. And wise.

Wisdom was not a characteristic she often used to compare with anyone, let alone a man so young. But there was no getting around the fact that it had surrounded him like an aura; experience and knowledge that he had worn gently and hadn't flaunted.

Her eyes caught a flash of gold amidst the passers by, the hair of a stranger who was standing some ways off. She didn't know his face, the features seemed to blur and reshape in and out of focus when she looked, but the sight of him stirred a hint of remembrance inside her – something she felt foolish to have forgotten.

"He was kind," she finally said, venturing a small smile. "Polite and very smart, honorable, even. He was a soldier, and sent overseas before you were born. I don't know where he is now, or Lilith, but I assume she's with him."

She glanced down at Cillian, she discovered the little boy's eyes had followed her own, settling on the stranger. When she turned back to the stranger, a small, familiar pang of worry curled between her insides. Worry that something had happened to them, that she might never know if anything did, but be forced to suffer that fear and doubt forever.

"I'm sure they're all right," she told Cillian, giving his hand a small squeeze, aware that she said it partly for her own comfort and hoping to edge away from the uncomfortable topic. "One day maybe they'll be able to come home again."

But Cillian was no longer listening to his foster mother. He was still looking at the man, his eyes fixed to the face that he could recognize Sarah had somehow, for some reason, likened to his father.

The man was dressed in all black, and walked down the sidewalk at a pace that seemed unnaturally, exaggeratedly slow, like the world around him were moving much too quickly. It was as though he were somehow removed from everything and everyone else, moving with a smooth, eerie grace against the natural current.

Cillian had never seen anyone move that way, and the strangeness of it so captured him that he couldn't look away.

Neither he nor Sarah realized that he was seeing things no one else could. They hadn't the means to know that he could see into what was _Elsewhere, _beyond the veils of magic held in place by earth and ancient spells or, in this case, over a man's figure like a cloak_._

Cillian said nothing about the odd way the air felt colder or dryer all of a sudden, or that he caught the scent of lilies in December. He said nothing about the way the man lifted his hand to offer a perch for the large, glossy black crow which swept down from seemingly nowhere to land there.

And he said nothing when the man paused beside the mouth of a grimy side street, looking down at the woman whose shoulder had just brushed his own as she slumped, clutching weakly at her chest and gasping as though she couldn't breathe.

He knew he could do nothing.

By the time he went to bed, Cillian would have forgotten most of what he had seen that afternoon. The details would have worn away and the vividness would have dimmed.

But he would remember staring back over his shoulder as Sarah led him along, back at the man who simply stood, watching as the woman died with the sharp tang of fear on her skin and in her eyes. The firm, emotionless lines of the strange man's face and the shock of recognition he would never be able to shake or explain.

He would remember wondering why someone good would not defend or help someone in need of it. He would remember wondering whether his father – his kind, well-mannered, honorable father – would have helped that woman, or whether he, too, would have stood by and watched.

* * *

**Hello readers!**

**I must extend the usual apology for a lengthy delay. I hate that work and school and other such nonsense gets in the way of my being able to update with any sense of timeliness. Believe me; I would change it if I could. Which is why I must also say thank you. Thank you so, so very much for sticking with me despite it all. I truly appreciate everyone's understanding.**

**I cranked out the last part of this chapter in something of a caffeine-induced frenzy and am…not entirely sure if I'm satisfied with it yet. But I was really not willing to make you all wait any more, and so I decided I would post it anyhow.**

**If the chapter seems fillerish, that's because it is. The why of this (I hope) will become clear in the next chapter, and despite the filler tones, there are pieces in this one that are actually rather important. I know I say that a lot, but it's because this is a 5 volume monster and it takes a long time for anything to happen. **

**Ugh. Apologies.  
**  
**Please take a moment to review, I would truly appreciate your time and energy! :D**  
**Thank you so much again!**

**Until next time.**


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